THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


BEQUEST  OF 

7Hn^.  ^^6U  ^,  SUU 


THIS    FREEDOM 


By  a.  S.  M.  HUTCHINSON 


The  Happy  Warbior 

Once  Aboard  the  Lugger  — 

The  Cleak  Heart 

If  Winter  Comes 

This  Freedom 


THIS    FREEDOM 


A 


V"^ 


vS' 


BY 


aT  S.  M.  HUTCHINSON 


Hi 


INON-REFfcBJ 


awVAD '  OHS 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


U  S3  T^S 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  a.  S.  M.  Hutchinsoi?. 


All  rights  reserved 

Published    September,    1922 
First  Printing 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


"With  a  great  sum  obtained  I  this  freedom." 

— Acts  xxii,  28. 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE 
House  of  Men i 

PART  TWO 
House  of  Women 75 

PART  THREE 
House  of  Children 205 

PART  FOUR 
House  of  Cards 289 


PART  ONE 
HOUSE  OF  MEN 


THIS   FREEDOM 


CHAPTER  I 

Rosalie's  earliest  apprehension  of  the  world  was  of  a 
mysterious  and  extraordinary  world  that  revolved  entirely' 
about  her  father  and  that  entirely  and  completely  belonged 
to  her  father.  Under  her  father,  all  males  had  proprietory 
rights  in  the  world  and  dominion  over  it;  no  females 
owned  any  part  of  the  world  or  could  do  anything  with 
it.  All  the  males  in  this  world  —  her  father,  and  Robert 
and  Harold  her  brothers,  and  all  the  other  boys  and  men 
one  sometimes  saw  —  did  mysterious  and  extraordinary 
things ;  and  all  the  females  in  this  world  —  her  mother, 
and  Anna  and  Flora  and  Hilda  her  sisters,  and  Ellen  the 
cook  and  Gertrude  the  maid  —  did  ordinary  and  unex- 
citing and  generally  rather  tiresome  things.  All  the  males 
were  like  story  books  to  Rosalie :  you  never  knew  what 
they  were  going  to  do  next ;  and  all  the  females  were  like 
lesson  books :  they  just  went  on  and  on  and  on. 

Rosalie  always  stared  at  men  when  she  saw  them. 
Extraordinary  and  wonderful  creatures  who  could  do 
what  they  liked  and  were  always  doing  mysterious  and 
wonderful  things,  especially  and  above  all  her  father. 

Being  with  her  father  was  like  being  with  a  magician 
or  like  watching  a  conjuror  on  the  stage.  You  never  knew 
what  he  was  going  to  do  next.  Whatever  he  suddenly  did 
was  never  surprising  in  the  sense  of  being  startling,  for 
(this  cannot  be  emphasised  too  much)  nothing  her  father 
did  was  ever  surprising  to  Rosalie;  but  it  was  surprising 


4  THIS  FREEDOM 

in  the  sense  of  being  absorbingly  wonderful  and  enthrall- 
ing. Even  better  than  reading  when  she  first  began  to 
read,  and  far  better  than  anything  in  the  world  before  the 
mysteries  in  books  were  discoverable,  Rosalie  liked  to  sit 
and  stare  at  her  father  and  think  how  wonderful  he  was 
and  wonder  what  extraordinary  thing  he  would  do  next. 
Everything  belonged  to  him.  The  whole  of  life  was 
ordered  with  a  view  to  what  he  would  think  about  it.  The 
whole  of  life  was  continually  thrown  off  its  balance  and 
whirled  into  the  most  entrancing  convulsions  by  sudden 
activities  of  this  most  wonderful  man. 

Entrancing  convulsions !  Wonderful,  wonderful  father 
with  a  bull  after  him !  Why,  that  was  her  very  earliest 
recollection  of  him !  That  showed  you  how  wonderful  he 
was!  Father,  seen  for  the  first  time  (as  it  were)  flying 
before  a  bull !  Bounding  wildly  across  a  field  towards  her 
with  a  bull  after  him!  Wonderful  father!  Did  her 
mother  ever  rush  along  in  front  of  a  bull  ?  Never.  Was 
it  possible  to  imagine  any  of  the  women  she  knew  rushing, 
before  a  bull?  It  was  not  possible.  To  see  a  woman 
rushing  before  a  bull  would  have  alarmed  Rosalie  for  she 
would  have  felt  it  was  unnatural ;  but  for  her  father  to  be 
bounding  wildly  along  in  front  of  a  bull  seemed  to  her 
perfectly  natural  and  ordinary  and  she  was  not  in  the 
least  alarmed;  only,  as  always,  enthralled. 

Her  father,  while  Rosalie  watched  him,  was  not  in  great 
danger.  Fie  came  ballooning  along  towards  Rosalie,  not 
running  as  ordinarily  fit  and  efficient  men  run,  but  pro- 
gressing by  a  series  of  enormous  leaps  and  bounds,  arms 
and  legs  spread-eagling,  and  at  each  leap  and  bound  always 
seeming  to  Rosalie  to  spring  as  high  in  the  air  as  he 
sprung  forward  over  the  ground.  It  would  not  have 
surprised  Rosalie,  who  was  then  about  four,  to  see  one 
of  these  stupendous  leaps  continue  in  a  whirling  flight 
through  mid-air  and  her  father  come  hurtling  over  the 


THIS  FREEDOM  5 

gate  and  drop  with  an  enormous  plunk  at  her  feet  Hke  a 
huge  dead  bird,  as  a  partridge  once  had  come  plunk  over 
the  hedge  and  out  of  the  sky  when  she  was  in  a  lane 
adjacent  to  a  shooting  party.  It  would  not  have  surprised 
her  in  the  least.  Nothing  her  father  did  ever  surprised 
Rosalie.  The  world  was  his  and  the  fulness  thereof,  and 
he  did  what  he  liked  with  it. 

Arrived,  however,  from  the  bull,  not  as  a  ballooning 
bird  out  of  the  sky,  but  as  a  headlong  avalanche  over  the 
gate,  Rosalie's  father  tottered  to  a  felled  tree  trunk, 
and  sat  there  heaving,  and  groaned  aloud,  "Infernal  par- 
ish; hateful  parish;  forsaken  parish!" 

Rosalie,  wonderingly  regarding  him,  said,  "  Mother 
says  dinner  is  waiting  for  you,  father.  " 

Her  mother  and  her  sisters  and  the  servants  and  the 
entire  female  establishment  of  the  universe  seemed  to 
Rosalie  always  to  be  waiting  for  something  from  her 
father,  or  for  her  father  himself,  or  waiting  for  or  upon 
some  male  other  than  her  father.  That  was  another  of 
the  leading  principles  that  Rosalie  first  came  to  know  in 
her  world.  Not  only  were  the  males,  paramountly  her 
father,  able  to  do  what  they  liked  and  always  doing  won- 
derful and  mysterious  things,  but  everything  that  the 
females  did  either  had  some  relation  to  a  male  or  was 
directly  for,  about,  or  on  behalf  of  a  male. 

Getting  Robert  off  to  school  in  the  morning,  for  in- 
stance.    That  was  another  early  picture. 

There  would  be  Robert,  eating ;  and  there  was  the  entire 
female  population  of  the  rectory  feverishly  attending  upon 
Robert  while  he  ate.  Six  females,  intensely  and  as  if  their 
lives  depended  upon  it,  occupied  with  one  male.  Three 
girls  —  Anna  about  sixteen,  Flora  fourteen,  Hilda 
twelve  —  and  three  grown  women,  all  exhaustingly  occu- 
pied in  pushing  out  of  the  house  one  heavy  and  obstinate 
male  aged  about  ten!     Rosalie  used  to  stand  and  watch 


6  THIS  FREEDOM 

entranced.  How  wonderful  he  was!  Where  did  he  go 
to  when  at  last  he  was  pushed  off?  What  happened  to 
him?    What  did  he  do? 

There  he  is,  eating;  there  they  are,  ministering.  En- 
trancing and  mysterious  spectacle ! 

Robert,  very  solid  and  heavy  and  very  heated  and  agi- 
tated, would  be  seated  at  the  table  shoving  porridge  into 
himself  against  the  clock.  One  of  his  legs,  unnaturally 
flexed  backward  and  outward,  is  in  the  possession  of 
Rosalie's  mother  who  is  on  her  knees  mending  a  hole  in 
his  stocking.  The  other  leg,  similarly  contorted,  is  on  the 
lap  of  Ellen  the  cook,  who  with  very  violent  tugs,  as  if 
she  were  lashing  a  box,  is  lacing  a  boot  on  to  it.  Behind 
Robert  is  Anna,  who  is  pressing  his  head  down  with  one 
hand  and  washing  the  back  of  his  neck  with  the  other. 
In  front  of  him  across  the  table  is  Hilda,  staring  before 
her  with  bemused  eyes  and  moving  lips  and  rapidly  count- 
ing on  drumming  fingers.  Hilda  is  doing  his  sums  for 
him.  Beside  him  on  his  right  side,  apparently  engaged 
in  throttling  him,  is  Gertrude  the  maid.  Gertrude  the 
maid  is  trying  to  tear  off  him  a  grimed  collar  and  put  on 
him  a  clean  collar.  Facing  Gertrude  on  his  other  side  is 
Flora.     Flora  is  bawling  his  history  in  his  ear. 

Everybody  is  working  for  Robert;  everybody  is  work- 
ing at  top  speed  for  him,  and  everybody  is  loudly  solicit- 
ing his  attention. 

"Oh,  do  give  over  wriggling,  master  Robert!"  (The 
boot-fastener.) 

"  *  Simon  de  Montford,  Hubert  de  Burgh,  and  Peter 
de  Roche.'  Well,  say  it  then,  you  dreadful  little  idiot!  " 
(The  history  crammer.) 

"  Oh,  master  Robert,  do  please  keep  up!  "  (The  collar 
fastener.) 

"  Keep  dozvn,  will  you!  "     (The  neck  washer.) 


THIS  FREEDOM  7 

"  Four  sixes  are  twenty-four  and  six  you  carried 
thirty!"     (The  arithmetician.) 

"Robert,  you  must  turn  your  foot  further  round!" 
(The  stocking-darner.) 

"  *  The  Barons  were  now  incensed.  The  Barons  were 
now  incensed.  The  Barons  were  now  incensed.'  Say  it, 
you  ghastly  httle  stupid!  " 

"  Do  they  make  you  do  these  by  fractions  or  by  deci- 
mals? .  .  .  Well,  what  do  you  know,  then?  " 

Entrancing  spectacle ! 

Now  the  discovery  is  by  everybody  simultaneously  made 
and  simultaneously  announced  that  Robert  is  already  later 
in  starting  than  he  has  ever  been  (he  always  was)  and 
immediately  Rosalie  would  become  witness  of  the  last  and 
most  violent  skirmish  in  this  devoted  attendance.  Every- 
body rushes  around  hunting  for  things  and  pushing  them 
on  to  Robert  and  pushing  Robert,  festooned  with  them, 
towards  the  door.  Where  was  his  cap?  Where  was  his 
satchel  ?  Where  was  his  lunch  ?  Where  were  his  books  ? 
Who  had  seen  his  atlas?  Who  had  seen  his  pencil  box? 
Who  had  seen  his  gymnasium  belt?  Was  his  bicycle 
ready?  Was  his  coat  on  his  bicycle?  Was  that  button 
on  his  coat? 

With  these  alarums  at  their  height  and  the  excursions 
attendant  on  them  at  their  busiest,  another  splendid  male 
would  enter  the  room  and  immediately  there  was,  as  Ro- 
salie always  saw,  a  transference  of  attendance  to  him  and 
a  violent  altercation  between  him  and  the  first  splendid 
male.  This  new  splendid  male  is  Rosalie's  other  brother, 
Harold.  Harold  was  eighteen  and  him  also  the  entire 
female  population  of  the  rectory  combined  to  push  out 
of  the  rectory  every  morning.  Harold  was  due  to  be 
pushed  off  half  an  hour  later  than  Robert,  and  as  he  was 
a  greater  and  more  splendid  male  than  Robert  (though 
infinitely  lesser  than  her  father)   so  the  place  to  which 


8  THIS  FREEDOM 

he  was  pushed  off  was  far  more  mysterious  and  en- 
thralhng  than  the  place  to  which  Robert  was  pushed  off. 
A  school  Rosalie  could  dimly  understand.  But  a  bank! 
Why  Harold  should  go  to  sit  on  a  bank  all  day,  and  why 
he  should  ride  on  a  bicycle  to  Ashborough  to  find  a  bank 
when  there  were  banks  all  around  the  rectory,  and  even 
in  the  garden  itself,  Rosalie  never  could  imagine.  Mys- 
terious Harold !  Anna  had  told  her  that  men  kept  money 
in  banks;  but  Rosalie  had  never  found  money  in  a  bank 
though  she  had  looked ;  yet  banks  —  of  all  extraordinary 
places  —  were  where  men  chose  to  put  their  money !  Mys- 
terious men !  And  Harold  could  find  these  banks  and 
find  this  money  though  he  never  took  a  trowel  or  a  spade 
and  was  always  shiningly  clean  with  a  very  high  collar 
and  very  long  cuffs.     Wonderful,  wonderful  Harold! 

Robert  was  due  to  be  pushed  off  half  an  hour  before 
Harold  was  due  to  be  pushed  off,  but  he  never  was;  the 
two  splendid  creatures  always  clashed  and  there  was  al- 
ways between  them,  because  they  clashed,  a  violent  scene 
which  Rosalie  would  not  have  missed  for  worlds.  A 
meeting  of  two  males,  so  utterly  unlike  a  meeting  of  two 
females,  was  invariably  of  the  most  entrancingly  noisy  or 
violent  description.  When  ladies  came  to  the  rectory  to 
see  her  mother  they  sat  in  the  drawing-room  and  sipped 
tea  and  spoke  in  thin  voices;  but  when  men  came  to  see 
her  father  and  went  into  the  study,  there  was  very  loud 
talking  and  often  a  row.  Yes,  and  once  in  the  village 
street,  Rosalie  had  seen  two  men  stand  up  and  thump  one 
another  with  their  fists  and  fall  down  and  get  up  and 
thump  again.  When  two  women,  her  sisters  or  others, 
quarrelled,  they  only  shrilled,  and  went  on  and  on  shrill- 
ing. It  was  impossible  to  imagine  the  collision  of  two 
women  producmg  anything  so  exciting  and  splendid  as 
invariably  was  produced  by  the  collision  of  two  males. 

As  now 


THIS  FREEDOM  9 

In  comes  Harold  in  great  heat  and  hurry  (as  men  al- 
ways were)  with  his  splendid  button  boots  in  one  hand 
and  an  immense  pair  of  shining  cuffs  in  the  other  hand. 

"  Haven't  you  gone  yet,  you  lazy  young  brute?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't,  you  lazy  old  brute  1  " 

Agitated  feminine  cries  of  "Robert!  Robert!  You 
are  not  to  speak  to  Harold  like  that.  " 

"  Well,  he  spoke  to  me  like  that." 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  do  a  jolly  sight  more  than  speak  to  you 
in  a  minute  if  you  don't  get  out  of  it.  Get  out  of  it,  do 
you  hear?  " 

"Shan't!" 

"Robert!    Robert!    Harold!    Harold!" 

"  Well,  get  him  out  of  it,  or  he'll  be  sorry  for  it.  Why 
is  he  always  here  when  I'm  supposed  to  be  having  my 
breakfast?  Not  a  thing  ready,  as  usual.  Look  here, 
where  I'm  supposed  to  sit  —  flannel  and  soap!  That's 
washing  his  filthy  neck,  I  suppose.  Filthy  young  brute  1 
Why  don't  you  wash  your  neck,  pig?  " 

"  Why  do  you  wear  girl's  boots  with  buttons,  pig?  " 

Commotion.  Enthralling  commotion.  Half  the  female 
assemblage  hustle  the  splendid  creature  Robert  out  of  the 
door  and  down  the  hall  and  on  to  his  bicycle;  half  the 
female  assemblage  cover  his  retreat  and  block  the  dash 
after  him  of  the  still  more  splendid  Harold;  all  the  female 
assemblage,  battle  having  been  prevented  and  one  splendid 
male  despatched,  combine  to  minister  to  the  requirements 
of  the  second  splendid  male  now  demanding  attention. 

Busy  scene.  Enthralling  spectacle.  There  he  is,  eat- 
ing; shoving  sausages  into  himself  against  the  clock  just 
as  Robert  had  shovelled  porridge  into  himself  against  the 
clock.  One  ministrant  is  sewing  a  buttton  on  to  his  boot, 
another  with  blotting  paper  and  hot  iron  is  removing  a 
stain  from  his  coat,  divested  for  the  purpose ;  one  is  pour- 
ing out  his  coffee,  another  is  cutting  his  bread,  a  third  is 


10  THIS  FREEDOM 

watching  for  his  newspaper  by  the  postman.  And  sud- 
denly he  whirls  everything  into  a  whirlpool  just  as  men, 
if  Rosalie  watches  them  long  enough,  always  whirl  every- 
thing into  a  whirlpool. 

"  Oh,  my  goodness,  the  pump!  " 

Chorus,  "  The  pump?  " 

"  The  bicycle  pump !  Has  that  young  brute  taken  the 
bicycle  pump?  " 

"  Yes,  he  took  it.     I  saw  it." 

Commotion. 

"  Catch  him  across  the  field !  Catch  him  across  the 
field!  Where  are  my  boots?  Where  the  devil  are  my 
boots?  Well,  never  mind  the  infernal  button.  How  am 
I  going  to  get  to  the  bank  with  a  flat  tyre?  Can't  some 
one  catch  him  across  the  field  instead  of  all  standing  there 
staring?  " 

Away  they  go !  Rosalie,  seeking  a  good  place  for  the 
glorious  spectacle,  is  knocked  over  in  the  stampede  for  the 
door.  Nobody  minds  Rosalie.  Rosalie  doesn't  mind  — 
anything  to  see  this  entrancing  sight !  Away  they  go,  fly- 
ing over  the  meadow,  shouting,  scrambling,  falling.  Out 
after  them  plunges  Harold,  shirt-sleeved,  one  boot  half 
on,  hobbling,  leaping,  bawling.  Glorious  to  watch  him ! 
He  outruns  them  all;  he  outbellows  them  all.  Of  course 
he  does.  He  is  a  man.  He  is  one  of  those  splendid,  won- 
derful, mysterious  creatures  to  whom,  subject  only  to 
Rosalie's  father,  the  entire  world  belongs.  Look  at  him, 
bounding,  bawling!    Wonderful,  wonderful  Harold! 

But  Robert  is  wonderful  too.  If  it  had  been  Anna  or 
Flora  or  Hilda  gone  off  with  the  pump,  she  would  have 
been  easily  caught.  Not  Robert.  Wonderful  and  myste- 
rious Robert,  wonderfully  and  mysteriously  pedalling  at 
incredible  speed,  is  not  caught.  The  hunt  dejectedly  trails 
back.  The  business  of  pushing  Harold  out  of  the  house 
is  devotedly  resumed. 


THIS  FREEDOM  11 

And  again  —  enthralling  spectacle  —  just  as  the  reign 
of  Robert  was  terminated  by  the  accession  of  Harold,  so 
the  dominion  of  Harold  is  overthrown  by  the  accession 
of  father.  Harold  is  crowded  about  with  ministrants. 
Nobody  can  leave  him  for  a  minute.  Rosalie's  father  ap- 
pears. Everybody  leaves  Harold  simultaneously,  abruptly, 
and  as  if  by  magic.  Rosalie's  father  appears.  Every- 
body disappears.  Wonderful  father!  Everybody  melts 
away ;  but  Harold  does  not  melt  away.  Courageous  Har- 
old! Everybody  melts;  only  Harold  is  left,  and  Rosalie 
watching;  and  immediately,  as  always,  the  magnificent 
males  clash  with  sound  and  fury. 

Rosalie's  father  scowls  upon  Harold  and  delivers  his 
morning  greeting.  No  "  Good  morning,  dear,"  as  her 
mother  would  have  said.  "  Aren't  you  gone  yet?  "  like  a 
bark  from  a  kennel. 

"  Just  going." 

Wonderful  father !  A  moment  before  there  had  been 
not  the  remotest  sign  of  Harold  ever  going.  Now  Harold 
is  very  anxious  to  go.  He  is  very  anxious  to  go  but,  like 
Robert,  he  will  not  abandon  the  field  without  defiance  of 
the  authority  next  above  his  own.  While  he  collects  his, 
things  he  whistles.  Rosalie  shudders  (but  deliciously  as 
one  in  old  Rome  watching  the  gladiators). 

*'  Do  you  see  the  clock,  sir?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  quicken  yourself,  sir.    Quicken  yourself." 

*'  The  clock's  fast." 

"  It  is  not  fast,  sir.  And  let  me  add  that  the  clock  with 
which  you  could  keep  time  of  a  morning,  or  of  any  hour 
in  the  day,  would  have  to  be  an  uncommonly  slow  clock." 

Harold  with  elaborate  unconcern  adjusts  his  trouser 
clips.  "  I  should  have  thought  that  was  more  a  matter 
for  the  Bank  to  complain  of,  if  necessary.  I  may  be 
wrong,  of  course " 


12  THIS  FREEDOAI 

"  You  may  be  wrong,  sir,  because  in  my  experience  you 
almost  invariably  are  wrong  and  never  more  so  than  when 
you  lad-di-dah  that  you  are  right.  You  may  be  wrong, 
but  let  me  tell  you  what  you  may  not  be.  You  may  not 
be  impertinent  to  me,  sir.  You  may  not  lad-di-dah  me, 
sir." 

"  Father,  I  really  do  not  see  why  at  my  age  I  should  be 
hounded  out  of  fhe  house  like  this  every  morning." 

"  You  are  hounded  out,  as  you  elegantly  express  it,  be- 
cause morning  after  morning,  owing  to  your  disgustingly 
slothful  habits,  you  clash  with  me,  sir.  My  breakfast  is 
delayed  because  you  clash  with  me,  and  the  house  is  de- 
layed because  you  clash  with  me,  and  the  whole  parish 
is  delayed  because  you  clash  with  me." 

"  Perhaps  you're  not  aware  that  Robert  clashes  with 


me. 


"  Dash  Robert !  Are  you  going  or  are  you  not  going?  " 

He  goes. 

"  Bring  back  the  paper." 

He  brings  it  back. 

Wonderful  father! 

Rosalie's  father  gives  a  tug  at  the  bell  cord  that  would 
have  dislocated  the  neck  of  a  horse.  The  cord  comes 
away  in  his  hand.    He  hurls  it  across  the  room. 

Glorious  father! 

There  was  a  most  frightful  storm  one  night  and  Ro- 
salie, in  Anna's  bed  with  Flora  crowded  in  also  and  Hilda 
shivering  in  her  nightgown  beside  them,  too  young  to  be 
frightened  but  with  her  sister's  fright  beginning  to  com- 
municate itself  to  her,  said,  "  Ask  father  to  go  and  stop 
it." 

"  Fool !  "  cried  Flora.  "  How  could  father  stop  the 
storm?  " 

Why  not? 


\ 


CHAPTER  II 

Flora's  sharp  and  astounding  reply  to  that  question  of 
Rosahe's  was  recalled  by  Rosalie,  with  hurt  surprise  at 
Flora's  sharpness  and  ignorance,  when,  shortly  after- 
wards, she  found  in  a  book  a  man  who  could,  and  actually 
did,  stop  a  storm.  This  was  a  man  called  Prospero  in  a 
book  called  "  The  Tempest." 

She  was  never  —  that  Rosalie  —  the  conventional  won- 
der-child of  fiction  who  reads  before  ten  all  that  its  author 
probably  never  read  before  thirty;  but  she  could  read 
when  she  was  six  and  she  read  widely  and  curiously, 
choosing  her  entertainment,  from  her  father's  book- 
shelves, solely  by  the  method  of  reading  every  book  that 
had  pictures. 

There  was  but  one  picture  to  "  The  Tempest,  "  a  fron- 
tispiece, but  it  sufficed,  and  at  the  period  when  Rosalie 
believed  the  ownership  of  the  world  to  be  vested  in  her 
father  and  under  him  in  all  males,  "  The  Tempest,"  be- 
cause it  reflected  that  condition,  was  the  greatest  joy  of 
all  the  joys  the  bookshelves  discovered  to  her.  She  read 
it  over  and  over  again.  It  presented  life  exactly  as  life 
presented  itself  to  the  round  eyes  of  Rosalie:  all  males 
doing  always  noisy  and  violent  and  important  and  en- 
thralling things,  with  Prospero,  her  father,  by  far  the 
most  important  of  all ;  and  women  scarcely  appearing  and 
doing  only  what  the  men  told  them  to  do.  Miranda's  ap- 
pearances in  the  story  were  indifferently  skipped  by  Ro- 
salie ;  the  noisy  action  and  language  in  the  wreck,  and  the 
noisy  action  and  language  of  the  drunkards  in  the  wood 


14  THIS  FREEDOM 

were  what  she  Hked,  and  all  the  magic  arts  of  Prospero 
were  what  she  thoroughly  appreciated  and  understood. 
That  was  life  as  she  knew  it. 

Rosalie's  father,  when  Rosalie  thought  the  world  be- 
longed to  him  and  revolved  about  him,  was  tall  and  clean- 
shaven and  of  complexion  a  dark  and  burning  red.  When 
he  was  excited  or  angry  his  face  used  to  burn  as  the 
embers  in  the  study  fire  burned  when  Rosalie  pressed  the 
bellows  against  them.  He  had  thick  black  eyebrows  and 
a  most  powerful  nose.  His  nose  jutted  from  his  face  like 
a  projection  from  a  cliff  beneath  a  clump  of  bushes.  He 
had  been  at  Cambridge  and  he  was  most  ferociously  fond 
of  Cambridge.  One  of  the  most  fearful  scenes  Rosalie 
ever  witnessed  was  on  one  boat-race  day  when  Harold 
appeared  with  a  piece  of  Oxford  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole. 
It  was  at  breakfast,  the  family  for  some  reason  or  other 
most  unusually  all  taking  breakfast  together.  Rosalie's 
father  first  jocularly  bantered  Harold  on  his  choice  of 
colour,  and  everybody  —  anxious  as  always  to  please  and 
placate  the  owner  of  the  world  —  laughed  with  father 
against  Harold.  But  Harold  did  not  laugh.  Harold 
smouldered  resentment  and  defiance,  and  out  of  his  smoul- 
dering began  to  maintain  "  from  what  chaps  had  said  " 
that  Oxford  was  altogether  and  in  every  way  a  much  bet- 
ter place  than  Cambridge.  In  every  branch  of  athletics 
there  were  better  athletes,  growled  Harold,  at  Oxford. 

Rosalie  has  been  watching  the  embers  in  her  father's 
face  glowing  to  dark-red  heat.  Everybody  had  been 
watching  them  except  Harold  who,  though  addressing  his 
father,  had  been  mumbling  "  what  chaps  had  said  "  to  his 
plate. 

"Athletes!  "  cried  Rosalie's  father  suddenly  in  a  very 
terrible  voice.  "  Athletes !  And  what  about  scholars, 
sir?" 


THIS  FREEDOM  15 

Harold  informed  his  plate  that  he  wasn't  talking  about 
scholars. 

Rosalie's  father  raised  a  marmalade  jar  and  thumped 
it  down  upon  the  table  so  that  it  cracked.  "  Then  what 
the  dickens  right  have  you  to  talk  at  all,  sir?  How  dare 
you  try  to  compare  Oxford  with  Cambridge  when  you 
know  no  more  about  either  than  you  know  of  Jupiter  or 
Mars?  Athletes!"  He  went  off  into  record  of  Uni- 
versity contests,  cricket  scores,  running  times,  football 
scores,  as  if  his  whole  life  had  been  devoted  to  collecting 
them.  They  all  showed  Cambridge  first  and  Oxford 
beaten  and  he  hurled  each  one  at  Harold's  head  with  a 
thundering,  "What  about  that,  sir?  "  after  it.  He  leapt 
to  scholarship  and  reeled  off  scholarships  and  scholars  and 
schools,  and  professors  and  endowments  and  prize  men, 
as  if  he  had  been  an  educational  year-book  gifted  with 
speech  and  with  particularly  loud  and  violent  speech.  He 
spoke  of  the  colleges  of  Cambridge,  and  with  every  col- 
lege and  every  particular  glory  of  every  college  demanded 
of  the  unfortunate  Harold,  "  What  have  you  got  in  Ox- 
ford against  that,  sir?  " 

It  was  awful.  It  was  far  more  frightening  than  the 
night  of  the  storm.  Nobody  ate.  Nobody  drank.  Every- 
body shuddered  and  tried  by  every  means  to  avoid  catch- 
ing father's  rolling  eye  and  thereby  attracting  the  direct 
blast  of  the  tempest.  Rosalie,  who  of  course,  being  a 
completely  negligible  quantity  in  the  rectory,  is  not  in- 
cluded in  the  everybody,  simply  stared,  more  awed  and 
enthralled  than  ever  before.  And  with  much  reason.  As 
he  declaimed  of  the  glories  of  the  colleges  of  Cambridge 
there  was  perceptible  in  her  father's  voice  a  most  curious 
crack  or  break.  It  became  more  noticeable  and  more  fre- 
quent. He  suddenly  and  most  astoundingly  cried  out, 
"  Cambridge !  Cambridge !  "  and  threw  his  arms  out  be- 
fore him  on  the  table,  and  buried  his  head  on  them,  and 


16  THIS  FREEDOM 

sobbed  out,  "Cambridge!  My  youth!  My  youth!  My 
God,  my  God,  my  youth!  " 

Somehow  or  other  they  all  slipped  out  of  the  room  and 
left  him  there,  —  all  except  Rosalie  who  remained  in  her 
high  chair  staring  upon  her  father,  and  upon  his  shoulders 
that  heaved  up  and  down,  and  upon  the  coffee  from  an 
overturned  cup  that  oozed  slowly  along  the  tablecloth. 

Extraordinary  father! 

Rosalie's  father  had  been  a  wrangler  and  one  of  the 
brilliant  men  of  his  year  at  Cambridge.  All  manner  of 
brilliance  was  expected  for  him  and  of  him.  He  unex- 
pectedly went  into  the  Church  and  as  unexpectedly  mar- 
ried. 

His  bride  was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  a  widower, 
who  kept  a  small  private  school  in  Devonshire.  She  helped 
her  father  to  run  the  school  (an  impoverished  business 
which,  begun  exclusively  for  the  "  sons  of  gentlemen," 
had  slid  down  into  paying  court  to  tradesmen  in  order 
to  get  the  sons  of  tradesmen)  and  she  maintained  him  in 
the  very  indifferent  health  he  suffered.  Harold  Aubyn, 
the  brilliant  wrangler  with  the  brilliant  future,  who  had 
begun  his  brilliance  by  unexpectedly  entering  the  Church, 
and  continued  it  by  unexpectedly  marrying  while  on  a 
holiday  in  the  little  Devonshire  town  where  he  had  gone 
to  ponder  his  future  (a  little  unbalanced  by  the  unpre- 
meditated plunge  into  Holy  Orders)  further  continued 
his  brilliance  by  unexpectedly  finding  himself  the  assistant 
master  in  his  father-in-law's  second-rate  and  failing 
school.  The  daughter  would  not  leave  her  father;  the 
suitor  would  not  leave  his  darling;  the  brilliant  young 
wrangler  who  at  Cambridge  used  to  dream  of  waking  to 
find  himself  famous  awoke  instead  to  find  himself  six 
years  buried  in  a  now  third-rate  and  moribund  school  in  a 
moribund  Devonshire  town.    He  had  a  father-in-law  now 


THIS  FREEDOM  17 

a  permanent  invalid,  bedridden.  He  had  four  children 
and  another,  Robert,  on  the  way. 

It  v/as  his  father-in-law's  death  that  awoke  him;  and 
he  awoke  characteristically.  The  old  man  dead!  Come, 
that  was  one  burden  lifted,  one  shackle  removed!  The 
school  finally  went  smash  at  the  same  time.  Never  mind ! 
Another  burden  gone!  Another  shackle  lifted!  Dash 
the  school !  How  he  hated  the  school !  How  he  loathed 
and  detested  the  lumping  boys !  How  he  loathed  and 
abominated  teaching  them  simple  arithmetic  (he  the 
wrangler!)  and  history  that  was  a  string  of  dates,  and 
geography  that  was  a  string  of  capes  and  bays,  and  Latin 
as  far  as  the  conjugations  (he  the  wrangler!)  how  he 
loathed  and  abominated  it !    Now  a  fresh  start !    Hurrah ! 

That  was  like  Rosalie's  father  —  in  those  days.  That 
way  blew  the  cold  fit  and  the  hot  fit  —  then. 

The  magnificent  fresh  start  after  the  magnificent  escape 
from  the  morass  of  the  moribund  father-in-law  and  the 
moribund  school  and  the  moribund  Devonshire  town 
proved  to  be  but  a  stagger  down  into  morass  heavier  and 
more  devastating  of  ambition.  He  always  jumped  blindly 
and  wildly  into  things.  Blindly  and  wildly  into  the 
Church,  blindly  and  wildly  into  marriage,  blindly  and 
wildly  into  the  school,  blindly  and  wildly,  one  might  say, 
into  fatherhood  on  a  lavish  scale.  Blindly  and  wildly  — 
the  magnificent  fresh  start  —  into  the  rectory  in  which 
Rosalie  was  born. 

It  was  "  a  bit  in  the  wilds  "  (of  Suffolk)  ;  "  a  bit  of  a 
tight  fit  "  (£200  a  year)  and  a  bit  or  two  or  three  other 
drawbacks;  but  it  was  thousands  of  miles  from  Devon- 
shire and  from  the  school  and  schooling,  that  was  the 
great  thing;  and  it  was  a  jolly  big  rectory  with  a  ripping 
big  garden;  and  above  all  and  beyond  everything  it  was 
just  going  to  be  a  jumping-off  place  while  he  looked 
around  for  something  suitable  to  his  talents  and  while  he 


18  THIS  FREEDOM 

got  in  touch  again  with  his  old  friends  of  the  brilhant 
years. 

It  was  just  going  to  be  a  jumping-off  place,  but  he  never 
jumped  off  from  it;  a  place  from  which  to  look  around 
for  something  suitable,  but  instead  he  sunk  in  it  up  to  his 
chin;  a  place  from  which  to  get  in  touch  again  with  his 
friends  of  the  brilliant  years,  but  his  friends  were  all 
doing  brilliant  things  and  much  too  busy  at  their  brilliance 
to  open  up  with  one  who  had  missed  fire. 

The  parish  of  St.  Mary's,  Ibbotsfield,  had  an  enormous 
rectory,  falling  to  pieces;  an  enormous  church,  crumbling 
away;  an  enormous  area,  purely  agricultural;  and  a  cure 
of  a  very  few  hundred  agricultural  souls,  enormously 
scattered.  Years  and  years  before,  prior  to  railways,  prior 
to  mechanical  reapers  and  thrashers,  and  prior  to  every- 
thing that  took  men  to  cities  or  whirled  them  and  their 
produce  farther  in  an  hour  than  they  ever  could  have  gone 
in  a  week,  Ibbotsfield  and  its  surrounding  villages  and 
hamlets  were  a  reproach  to  the  moral  conditions  of  the 
day  in  that  they  had  no  sufficiently  enormous  church. 
Well-intentioned  persons  removed  this  reproach,  adding 
in  their  zeal  an  enormous  rectory;  and  the  time 
they  chose  for  their  beneficent  and  lavish  action  was  pre- 
cisely the  time  when  Ibbotsfield,  through  its  principal 
land-owners,  was  stoutly  rejecting  the  monstrous  idea  of 
encouraging  a  stinking,  roaring,  dangerous  railway  in 
their  direction,  and  combining  together  by  all  means  in 
their  power  to  keep  the  roaring,  dangerous  atrocity  as 
far  away  from  them  as  possible. 

It  thus,  and  by  like  influences,  happened  that,  whereas 
one  generation  of  the  devoutly  intentioned  sat  stolidly 
under  the  reproach  of  an  enormous  and  thickly  populated 
area  without  a  church,  later  generations  with  the  same 
stolidity  sat  under  the  reproach  of  an  enormous  church,  an 
enormous  rectory  and  an  infinitesimal  stipend,  in  an  area 


THIS  FREEDOM  19 

in  Avhich  a  man  might  walk  all  day  without  meeting  any 
other  man. 

But  the  devout  of  the  day,  not  having  to  live 
in  this  rectory  or  preach  in  this  church  or  laboriously 
trudge  about  this  area,  did  not  unduly  worry  themselves 
with  this  reproach. 

That  was  (in  his  turn)  the  lookout  of  the  Rev.  Harold 
Aubyn  —  also  his  outlook. 

He  is  to  be  imagined,  in  those  days  when  Rosalie  first 
came  to  know  him  and  to  think  of  him  as  Prospero,  as  a 
terribly  lonely  man.  He  stalked  fatiguingly  about  the 
countryside  in  search  of  his  parishioners,  and  his  parish- 
ioners were  suspicious  of  him  and  disliked  his  fierce, 
thrusting  nose,  and  he  returned  from  them  embittered 
with  them  and  hating  them.  He  genuinely  longed  to  be 
friendly  with  them  and  on  terms  of  Hail,  fellow,  well 
met,  with  them ;  but  they  exasperated  him  because  they 
could  not  meet  him  either  on  his  own  quick  intellectual 
level  or  upon  his  own  quick  and  very  sensitive  emotional 
level.  They  could  not  respond  to  his  humour  and  they 
could  not  respond,  in  the  way  he  thought  they  ought  to 
respond,  to  his  sympathy. 

He  once  found  a  man  —  a  farm  labourer  —  who  in 
conversation  disclosed  a  surprising  interest  in  the  traces 
of  early  and  mediaeval  habitation  of  the  country.  The 
discovery  delighted  him.  In  the  catalogue  of  a  second- 
hand bookseller  of  Ipswich  he  noticed  the  "  Excursions 
in  the  County  of  Suffolk,  "  two  volumes  for  three  shillings, 
and  he  wrote  and  had  them  posted  to  the  man.  For  days 
he  eagerly  looked  in  the  post  for  the  grateful  and  de- 
lighted letter  that  in  similar  circumstances  he  himself 
would  have  written.  He  composed  in  his  mind  the  phrases 
of  the  letter  and  warmed  in  spirit  over  anticipation  of 
reading  them.    No  letter  arrived. 


20  THIS  FREEDOM 

When  he  came  into  the  rectory  from  visiting  he  was 
always  asking,  "  Has  that  man  Bolas  from  Hailsham 
called?"  Bolas  never  called.  He  furiously  began  to 
loathe  Bolas.  He  was  furious  with  himself  for  having 
"  lowered  himself  "  to  Bolas.  Bolas  in  his  ignorance  no 
doubt  thought  the  books  were  a  cheap  charity  of  cast-off 
lumber.  Uncouth  clod !  Stupid  clod !  Uncouth  par- 
ish !  Hateful,  loathsome  parish !  For  weeks  he  kept  away 
from  Hailsham  and  the  possible  vicinity  of  Bolas.  One 
day  he  met  him.  Bolas  passed  with  no  more  than  a  "  Good 
day,  Mr.  Aubyn."  He  could  have  killed  the  man.  He 
swung  round  and  pushed  his  dark  face  and  jutty  nose  into 
the  face  of  Bolas.  "  Did  you  ever  get  some  books  I  sent 
you?" 


"  Ou,  ay,  to  be  sure,  they  books " 

He  rushed  with  savage  strides  away  from  the  man.  All 
the  way  home  he  savagely  said  to  himself,  aloud,  keeping 
time  to  it  with  his  feet,  "  Uncouth  clod,  ill-mannered 
clod,  horrible,  hateful  place!  Uncouth  clods,  hateful 
clods,  horrible,  hateful  place !  " 

That  was  his  attitude  to  his  parishioners.  They  could 
not  come  up  to  the  level  of  his  sensibilities;  he  could  not 
get  down  to  the  level  of  theirs. 

With  the  few  gentle  families  that  composed  the  society 
of  Ibbotsfield  he  was  little  better  accommodated.  They 
led  contented,  well-ordered  lives,  busy  about  their  gardens, 
busy  about  their  duties,  busy  about  their  amusements. 
His  life  was  ill-ordered  and  he  was  never  busy  about  any- 
thing :  he  was  always  either  neglecting  what  had  to  be 
done  or  doing  it,  late,  with  a  ferocious  and  exhausting 
energy  that  caused  him  to  groan  over  it  and  detest  it  while 
he  did  it.  In  the  general  level  of  his  life  he  was  below  the 
standard  of  his  neighbours  and  knew  that  he  was  below 
it;  in  the  sudden  bounds  and  flights  of  his  intellect  and 
of  his  imagination  he  was  immeasurably  above  the  intel- 


THIS  FREEDOM  21 

lects  of  his  neighbours  and  knew  that  he  was  immeasur- 
ably above  them.  Therefore,  and  in  both  moods,  he  com- 
monly hated  and  despised  them.  "  Fools,  fools !  Un- 
read, pompous,  petty!  " 

At  the  rectory,  among  his  family,  he  seemed  to  himself 
to  be  surrounded  by  incompetent  women  and  herds  of 
children. 

He  was  a  terribly  lonely  man  when  Rosalie  first  came 
to  know  him  and  thought  of  him  as  Prospero.  He  is  to 
be  imagined  in  those  days  as  a  fierce,  flying,  futile  figure 
scudding  about  on  the  face  of  the  parish  and  in  the  vast 
gaunt  spaces  of  the  rectory,  with  his  burning  face  and  his 
jutting  nose,  trying  to  get  away  from  people,  hungering 
to  meet  sympathetic  people ;  trying  to  get  way  from  him- 
self, hungering  after  the  things  that  his  self  had  lost.  In 
his  young  manhood  he  was  known  for  moods  of  intense 
reserve  alternated  by  fits  of  tremendous  gaiety  and  bois- 
terous high  spirits.  ("A  fresh  start!  Hurrah!"  when 
release  from  the  school  came.  "  What  does  anything  mat- 
ter ?  Now  we're  really  off  at  last !  Hurrah !  Hurrah !  " ) 
In  his  set  manhood,  when  Rosalie  knew  him,  there  were 
substituted  for  the  fits  of  boisterous  spirits  paroxysms  of 
violent  outburst  against  his  lot.  "  Infernal  parish !  Hate- 
ful parish !  Forsaken  parish !  "  after  the  ignominy  of 
flight  before  the  bull.  "  Blow  the  dinner !  Dash  the  din- 
ner !  Blow  the  dinner !  "  after  wrestling  a  soggy  steak 
from  his  pocket  and  hurling  it  half  a  mile  through  the  air. 
These  and  that  single  but  terrible  occasion  of  "  Cam- 
bridge !  Cambridge  !  My  youth !  My  God,  my  God,  my 
youth!" 

A  terribly  lonely  man. 


CHAPTER  III 

The  Aubyn  family  occupied  only  a  portion  of  the 
enormous  rectory.  There  was  a  whole  floor  upstairs,  and 
there  were  several  rooms  on  the  ground  and  first  floors, 
that  were  never  used,  were  unfurnished  except  for  odds 
and  ends  of  lumber  left  behind  by  the  previous  vicar,  and 
were  never  entered.  Rosalie  once  explored  them  all,  syste- 
matically though  very  fearfully,  and  also  very  excitedly. 
She  was  searching  for  some  one,  for  two  people. 

In  the  household  she  knew  her  father  and  her  mother, 
her  brothers  and  sisters  and  the  servants;  but  there  were 
two  mysterious  inhabitants  of  whom  she  often  heard  but 
whom  she  never  saw  and  never  could  find.  It  used  to 
frighten  her  sometimes,  lying  awake  at  night,  or  creeping 
about  the  house  of  an  evening,  to  think  of  those  two  mys- 
terious people  hidden  away  somewhere  and  perhaps  likely 
to  pounce  on  her  out  of  the  dark.  What  did  they  eat? 
Where  did  they  live?  What  did  they  do?  What  were 
they? 

One  of  these  two  eerie  and  invisible  people  was  heard 
of  from  her  father.  Several  times  Rosalie  had  heard 
him,  when  talking  to  persons  not  of  the  family,  speak  of 
"my  wife."  The  other  eerie  and  invisible  creature  was 
heard  of  from  her  mother  :  "  My  husband." 

Where  were  they?  Of  all  the  mysterious  things  which 
Rosalie  used  to  wonder  over  in  those  days,  this  undiscov- 
erable  "  wife  "  and  "  husband  "  were  the  most  mysterious 
of  all,  and  more  mysterious  than  ever  after  that  day  on 
which,  walking  on  tiptoe  for  fear  of  coming  upon  them 
suddenly,  holding  her  breath  and  pausing  in  fearful  ap- 


THIS  FREEDOM  23 

prehension  before  entering  the  imtenanted  rooms  upstairs, 
she  explored  the  whole  house  in  search  of  them.  She  got 
to  know  all  sorts  of  little  odds  and  ends  about  them;  that 
the  wiie.  felt  the  cold  very  much,  for  instance,  for  she  had 
heard  her  father  say  so ;  and  that  the  husband  did  not  like 
mutton,  for  her  mother  told  that  to  Mr.  Grant  the 
butcher;  and  she  was  often  hot  on  their  tracks  for  she 
had  heard  her  father  say,  "  My  wife  is  upstairs  "  and  had 
rushed  upstairs  and  searched;  and  her  mother  say,  "  My 
husband  is  in  the  garden,"  and  had  run  into  the  garden 
and  hunted.  But  all  these  clues  only  deepened  the  mys- 
tery.   They  were  never  to  be  found. 

It  was  mysterious. 

Then  one  day  the  wife  (she  heard)  fell  ill,  and  through 
her  great  concern  about  that — for  she  was  profoundly 
interested  in  these  people  and  used  to  feel  awfully  sorry 
for  them,  hidden  away  like  that  perhaps  with  no  fire  and 
nothing  to  eat  but  mutton  —  the  mystery  was  explained. 

With  the  family  she  was  going  towards  church  one 
Sunday  morning  and  she  heard  her  father  tell  a  lady  that 
"  my  wife  "  was  not  very  well  that  morning  and  couldn't 
come.  Rosalie  during  the  service  prayed  very  earnestly 
for  the  wife's  recovery  and  took  the  opportunity  of  pray- 
ing also  that  she  might  be  permitted  to  see  the  wife  "  if 
she  is  not  very  frightening,  O  Lord,  and  the  husband  too, 
if  possible,  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake,  amen." 

And  at  lunch,  having  thought  of  nothing  else  all  the 
morning,  there  was  suddenly  shot  out  of  her  the  question, 
"  Father,  is  your  wife  any  better  now?  " 

Rosalie  commonly  never  spoke  at  all  at  meals;  and  as 
to  speaking  to  her  father,  though  it  is  obvious  she  must 
have  had  some  sort  of  intercourse  with  him,  this  famous 
question  (a  standing  joke  in  the  house  for  years)  was  the 
single  direct  speech  of  those  early  years  she  ever  could  re- 
member.    She  spoke  to  her  father  when  she  was  bidden 


24  THIS  FREEDOM 

to  speak  in  the  form  of  messages,  generally  about  meals 
being  ready,  or  relative  to  shopping  commissions  he  had 
been  asked  to  execute;  but  he  was  far  too  wonderful, 
powerful  and  mysterious  for  conversation  with  him  on  her 
own  initiative.  "  Father,  is  your  wife  any  better  now?  " 
stood  out  in  her  later  recollection,  alone  and  lonelily 
startling. 

There  was  from  all  the  company  an  astounded  stare  and 
astounded  gasp ;  all  the  table  sitting  with  astounded  eyes, 
forks  suspended  in  mid-air,  mouths  half  open  in  aston- 
ishment, and  Rosalie  sitting  in  her  high  chair  wonder- 
ingly  regarding  their  wonderment.  What  were  they 
staring  at? 

There  was  then  an  enormous  howl  of  laughter,  led  by 
Rosalie's  father,  and  repeated,  and  louder  than  before, 
because  it  was  so  very  unusual  for  the  family  to  be  laugh- 
ing in  accord  with  father.  Gertrude  the  maid  fled  hyster- 
ically from  the  room  and  laughter  howled  back  from  the 
kitchen. 

Rosalie's  father  said,  "  You'd  better  go  and  ask  your 
mother."  Her  mother  had  stayed  in  bed  that  day  with  a 
chill. 

Robert  "  undid  "  Rosalie  —  a  wooden  rod  with  a  fixed 
knob  at  one  end  went  through  the  arms  of  her  high  chair 
and  was  fastened  by  a  removable  knob  at  the  other  end  — 
and  Rosalie  slid  down  very  gravely,  and  with  their  laugh- 
ter still  echoing  trod  upstairs  to  her  mother's  bedside  and 
related  what  she  had  been  told  to  ask,  and,  on  inquiry,  why 
she  had  asked  it.  "I  only  said  '  Father,  is  your  wife  any 
better  now?  '  "  and  on  further  inquiry  explained  her  long 
searching  after  the  undiscoverable  pair. 

Rosalie's  mother  laughed  also  then,  but  had  a  sudden 
wetness  in  her  eyes.  She  put  her  arms  about  Rosalie  and 
pressed  her  to  her  bosom  and  cried,  "  Oh,  my  poor  dar- 
ling! "  and  explained  the  tremendous  mystery.    Wife  and 


THIS  FREEDOM  25 

husband,  Rosalie's  mother  explained,  were  the  names  used 
by  other  people  for  her  father  and  her  mother.  A  man 
and  a  woman  loved  one  another  very,  very  dearly  ("as  I 
loved  your  dear  father")  and  then  they  lived  together 
in  a  dear  house  of  their  own  and  then  God  gave  them  dear 
little  children  of  their  own  to  live  with  them,  said  Rosalie's 
motlier. 

This  thoroughly  satisfied  Rosalie  and  completely  en- 
tranced her,  especially  about  the  presentation  of  the  dear 
little  children.  She  would  have  supposed  that  naturally  it 
thoroughly  satisfied  Anna  and  Harold  and  Flora  and  the 
others ;  and  the  point  of  interest  rests  here,  that  Rosalie's 
mother  also  believed  that  this  explanation  of  marriage  and 
procreation  completely  satisfied  Anna  at  sixteen  and  Har- 
old in  the  Bank  at  eighteen.  She  never  gave  them  any 
other  explanation  of  the  phenomenon  of  birth;  and  it  is 
to  be  supposed  that,  just  as  she  instructed  them  that  God 
sent  the  dear  little  children,  so  she  believed  that  God,  at 
the  right  time,  in  some  mysterious  way,  communicated 
the  matter  to  them  in  greater  detail.  Years  and  years 
afterwards  Flora  told  Rosalie  that  when  Rosalie  was  born 
all  the  children  were  sent  away  to  stay  with  a  neighbour 
and  not  allowed  to  return  till  Rosalie's  mother,  down- 
stairs, w^as  able  to  show  them  the  dear  little  sister  that 
God  had  surprisingly  delivered  at  the  house,  as  it  were  in 
a  parcel. 

One  is  given  pain  by  a  state  of  afTairs  so  monstrous ; 
but  one  suffers  that  pain  proudly  because  one  belongs, 
proudly,  to  a  day  in  which  nothing  but  stark  truth  may 
go  from  mother  to  child,  not  even  fairy  stories,  not  even 
Bible  stories.  Rosalie's  mother  is  gone  and  her  kind  is 
no  more,  and  in  the  graces  and  the  manners  of  this  day's 
generation  one  perceives,  proudly,  the  inestimable  benefits 
of  the  passing  of  her  kind.  Lamentable  specimen  of  her 
kind,  she  had  no  interests  other  than  her  home  and  her 


26  THIS  FREEDOM 

husband  and  her  children  and  the  pleasures  and  the  treas- 
ures and  the  friends  of  her  husband  and  her  children. 
She  belonged  to  that  dark  age  when  duty  towards  others 
was  the  guiding  principle  of  moral  life;  she  came  only  to 
the  threshold  of  this  enlightened  age  in  which  duty  to 
oneself  is  known  to  be  the  paramount  and  first  and  last 
consideration  of  life  as  it  should  be  lived. 

Rosalie's  mother,  whose  name  had  been  Anna  Escott, 
kept  at  the  bottom  of  a  drawer  five  most  exquisite  little 
miniatures.  They  were  in  a  case  of  faded  blue  plush,  and 
they  had  been  in  that  case  and  at  the  bottom  of  one  drawer 
or  another  ever  since  the  girl  Anna  Escott,  aged  twenty, 
had  placed  them  in  the  case,  then  exquisitely  blue  and  new 
and  soft,  and  given  up  painting  miniatures  forever,  in 
order  to  devote  her  whole  time  to  looking  after  her  invalid 
father  and  the  failing  preparatory  school  that  was  his  live- 
lihood. 

Rosalie  was  herself  nearly  thirty  when  she  first  saw  the 
miniatures.  She  was  come  back  to  the  rectory  from  the 
pursuits  that  then  occupied  her  to  visit,  rather  impatiently 
and  rather  vexedly,  her  mother  on  what  proved  to  be  her 
death  bed.  She  was  tidying  her  mother's  drawers,  impa- 
tient with  the  amazing  collection  of  rubbish  they  contained 
and  hating  herself  for  being  impatient,  while  her  mother, 
on  the  bed,  patiently  watched  her;  and  she  came  upon 
the  case  and  opened  it  and  stared  in  astonishment  and 
admiration  at  the  beauty  of  the  five  miniatures. 

She  asked  her  mother  and  her  mother  told  her  she  had 
painted  them.  "  I  used  to  do  that  when  I  was  a  girl,"  said 
Rosalie's  mother. 

All  Rosalie's  impatience  was  drowned  and  utterly  en- 
gulfed in  a  most  dreadful  flood  of  emotion.  She  set 
down  the  case  on  the  bed  and  flung  herself  on  her  knees 
beside  her  mother  and  clasped  her  arms  about  her. 


THIS  FREEDOM  27 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !    Oh,  beloved  Httle  mother !  " 
But  that  is  out  of  its  place. 

Yes,  that  girl  Anna  Escott,  who  had  an  exquisite  talent,, 
and  all  sorts  of  fond  dreams  of  its  development,  gave  it 
up  wholly  and  entirely  and  forever  when  her  mother  died 
and  her  father  said,  "  I  would  like  you,  Anna  dear,  to 
give  up  your  painting  and  come  and  look  after  me  and 
the  school  now." 

Anna  said,  "  Of  course  I  will,  Papa.  It's  my  duty. 
Of  course  I  will." 

Girls  did  that,  and  parents  and  husbands  asked  them  to 
do  that,  in  the  days  when  Rosalie's  mother  was  a  girl. 

Rosalie's  mother  gave  away  everything,  first  to  her 
father,  then  to  her  husband,  then  to  her  children.  She 
believed  the  whole  of  the  Bible,  literally,  as  it  is  written, 
from  the  first  word  of  Genesis  to  the  last  word  of  Revela- 
tions. She  taught  it  as  literal,  final  and  initial  truth  to  all 
her  children,  and  one  knows  how  wickedly  wrong  it  is  now 
considered  to  teach  children  that  the  Bible-stories  are 
true.  She  taught  them  the  whole  of  the  Bible  from  books 
called  "  Line  Upon  Line,"  and  "  The  Child's  Bible,"  and 
in  stories  of  her  own  making,  and  from  the  Bible  itself. 
Regrettably,  the  ignorantly  impose'd-upon  children  loved 
it!  Till  each  child  was  eight  she  taught  them  everything 
at  her  knee.  All  the  nursery  rhymes,  and  all  the  Bible, 
and  reading  out  of  "  Step  by  Step,"  and  then  "  Reading 
Without  Tears,"  and  then,  in  advancing  series,  the 
"  Royal  Readers  " ;  and  writing,  first  holding  their  hands, 
and  then  —  first  in  pencil  and  afterwards  with  pens  hav- 
ing three  huge  blobs  to  teach  you  how  to  place  your  fingers 
properly  —  in  copybooks  graded  from  enormous  lines 
which  had  brick-red  covers  to  astoundingly  narrow  little 
lines  enclosing  pious  and  moral  maxims  which  had  severe 
grey  covers ;  and  the  multiplication  tables  and  then  simple 


28  THIS  FREEDOM 

aritlmetlc;  and  General  Knowledge  out  of  "The  Child's 
Guiae  to  Knowledge,"  which  asked  you  "  What  is  sago?  " 
and  required  you  to  reply  by  heart,  "  Sago  is  a  dried, 
granulated  substance  prepared  from  the  pith  of  several 
different  palms."  "Where  are  these  palms  found?" 
■'  These  palms  are  found  in  the  East  Indies." 

Likewise  history  out  of  ]\Irs.  Markham  and  "  Little 
Arthur  " ;  also,  at  a  ridiculously  early  age,  how  to  tell  the 
time  and  how  to  know  the  coinage  of  the  realm  and  its 
values;  also,  whether  gin  or  boy,  the  making  of  kettle- 
holders  by  threading  brightly  coloured  wools  through  little 
squares  of  canvas;  also  very  many  pieces  of  poetry :  "  Oft 
had  I  heard  of  Lucy  Grey,"  and  "  It  was  the  Schooner 
Hesperus  "  and  hymns  —  also  learnt  by  heart  and  sung 
wdiile  Rosalie's  mother  played  the  piano  —  "  We  are  but 
little  children  weak,"  and  "  Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild." 

All  these  things  were  taught  at  her  knee  to  each  child 
in  turn  by  Rosalie's  mother,  and  each  was  taught  out  of 
the  self-same  books,  miraculously  preserved  by  Rosalie's 
mother;  the  backs  of  most  of  them  carefully  stitched  and 
re-stitched,  and  marked  all  through  by  the  dates  of  each 
child's  daily  lesson,  written  in  pencil  by  Rosalie's  mother. 
The  dates  ranged  from  1869  when  Harold  was  being 
taught  and  when  the  books  were  fresh  and  clean,  and 
Rosalie's  mother  fresh  and  ardent  with  her  first-born,  to 
1884,  when  Rosalie  was  being  taught,  and  the  books  very 
old  and  thumbed  and  most  terribly  crowded  with  pencil 
marks,  and  Rosalie's  mother  no  longer  fresh  but  rather 
worn,  but  teaching  as  fondly  and  earnestly  as  ever,  be- 
cause it  was  her  duty.  Literally  at  the  knee  of  Rosalie's 
mother  these  things  were  taught.  On  her  knee  with  one 
of  her  arms  about  you  for  the  Bible  teaching;  and  stand- 
ing at  her  knee,  hands  behind  you,  for  the  teaching  of 
most  of  the  rest.  Yes,  that  was  the  early  education,  and 
the   manner   of   the   education,    of   Rosalie   and   of   her 


THIS  FREEDOM  29 

brothers  and  sisters;  and  one  perceives  with  indignation 
the  spectacle  of  a  mother  wasting  her  time  Hke  that  and 
wasting  her  children's  time  like  that. 

Rosalie's  mother  did  everything  in  the  house  and  she 
was  always  doing  something  in  the  house  —  for  some- 
body else.  She  never  rested  and  she  was  always  worried. 
Her  brows  were  always  wrinkled  with  the  feverish  con- 
centration of  one  anxiously  doing  one  thing  while  anx- 
iously thinking  of  another  thing  waiting  to  be  done.  She 
had  a  driven  and  a  hunted  look. 

Now  Rosalie's  father  had  a  driving  and  a  hunting  look. 

Rosalie's  father  in  his  youth  threw  away  everything. 
Rosalie's  mother  throughout  the  whole  of  her  life  gave 
away  everything.  Rosalie's  father  was  a  tragic  figure 
dwelling  in  a  house  of  bondage;  but  he  was  at  least  a 
tragic  king,  ruling  his  house  and  venting  his  griefs  upon 
his  house.  Rosalie's  mother  was  a  tragic  figure  and  she 
was  a  tragic  slave  in  the  house  of  bondage.  The  life  of 
Rosalie's  father  was  a  tragedy,  but  a  tragedy  in  some 
measure  relieved  because  he  knew  it  was  a  tragedy  and 
could  wave  his  arms  and  shout  and  smash  things  and  hurl 
beefsteaks  through  the  air  because  of  the  tragedy  of  it. 
But  the  life  of  Rosalie's  mother  was  an  infinitely  deeper 
tragedy  because  she  never  knew  or  suspected  that  it  was 
a  tragedy. 

Still,  that  is  so  often  the  difiference  between  the  tragedy 
of  a  woman  and  the  tragedy  of  a  man. 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  very  great  difference  between  her  father  and  her 
mother  maintained  in  Rosahe  that  early  perception  of  the 
wondrousness  of  her  father.  She  loved  her  mother,  but 
in  the  atmosphere  surrounding  her  mother  there  was  often 
flurry  and  worry  and  there  was  nothing  whatever  in  her 
mother  to  mystify  and  entrance  by  sudden  and  violent 
eruptions  of  the  miraculous.  She  did  not  love  her  father 
for  he  was  entirely  too  remote  and  awe-ful  for  love,  but 
he  entranced  her  with  his  marvellousness.  This  main- 
tained in  her  also  her  perception  of  the  altogether  greater 
superiority  of  all  males  over  all  females. 

Rosalie  came  into  her  family  rather  like  a  new  little  girl 
first  entering  a  boarding  school.  When  she  w^as  about 
four,  and  first  beginning  to  realise  herself,  the  next  in  age 
to  her  was  Robert,  who  not  only  was  at  the  immense  dis- 
tance of  ten,  but  was  of  the  male  sex  and  therefore  had 
a  controlling  interest  in  the  world.  Then  was  Hilda  who 
was  twelve,  then  Flora  fourteen,  then  Anna  towering  away 
in  sixteen,  and  then  Harold  utterly  removed  in  the  enor- 
mous heights  of  eighteen,  second  only  to  Rosalie's  father 
in  ownership  of  the  world  and  often  awfully  disputing 
that  supreme  ownership. 

So  they  were  all  immeasurably  older  than  Rosalie;  and 
they  were  not  only  immeasurably  older  but,  which  counted 
for  much  more,  they  all  had  their  fixed  and  recognised 
places  in  their  world  just  as  girls  of  several  terms'  experi- 
ence have  their  recognised  places  in  their  school,  and  for 
Rosalie  there  seemed  to  be  no  place  at  all,  just  as  for  new 
girls  there  is  no  place.     Her  brothers  and  sisters  all  had 


THIS  FREEDOM  3t 

their  fixed  and  recognised  places,  their  interests,  their  oc- 
cupations, their  friendships  :  they  all  knew  their  own  places 
and  each  other's  places ;  they  had  learnt  to  respect  and  ad- 
mit each  other's  places ;  they  knew  the  weight  of  one 
another's  hand  in  those  places;  they  were  accustomed  to 
one  another;  they  tolerated  one  another. 

It  was  all  very  strange  and  wonderful  and  mysterious 
to  Rosalie. 

She  was,  as  it  were,  pitchforked  into  this  established 
and  regulated  order  and  to  find  a  place  for  her  was  like 
trying  to  fit  a  new  spoke  into  a  revolving  wheel.  It  can- 
not be  done ;  and  with  Rosalie  it  could  not  be  done.  The 
established  wheel  went  on  revolving  in  its  established  orbit 
and  the  new  spoke,  which  was  Rosalie,  lay  outside  and 
watched  it  revolve.  Intrusions  within  the  circumference 
of  the  w^heel  commonly  resulted  in  a  sharp  knock  from 
one  of  the  spokes.  No  one  was  in  any  degree  unkind  to 
Rosalie,  but  there  was  no  proper  place  for  her  and  every- 
body's will  was  in  authority  over  her  will.  She  rather, 
got  in  the  way.  To  be  with  her  was  not  to  enjoy  her 
company  or  to  enjoy  battle  with  her  and  the  putting  of 
her  company  to  flight.  To  be  with  her  was  to  have  to 
look  after  her ;  and  in  the  community  of  the  rectory  every 
member,  when  Rosalie  came,  was  fully  occupied  in  lock- 
ing after  itself  and  defending  itself  from  the  predatory 
excursions  of  any  other  member. 

What  happened  was  that  in  time,  just  as  a  slight  and 
negligible  body  cannot  be  in  the  sphere  of  a  powerful 
motion  without  being  affected  by  it,  so  Rosalie  began  to 
move  sympathetically  to  the  wheel  but  on  her  own  axis. 
She  moved  round  with  the  wheel  but  she  was  not  of  the 
wheel  and  she  never  became  really  incorporated  with  the; 
wheel.  The  spokes  were  revolving  with  incredible  ra- 
pidity when  she  first  began  to  notice  them  and  they  always 
remained  relatively  faster.     There  she  was,   sitting  and 


32  THIS  FREEDOM 

watching  and  wondering;  and  the  twig  grows  as  it  is 
bent  or  as  it  is  left  to  bend.  She  looked  on  and  absorbed 
things;  and  the  first  and  by  far  the  deepest  of  her  settled 
perceptions  was  that,  though  she  was  subject  to  all  powers, 
all  girls  and  women  were  themselves  subject  to  the  power 
of  all  boys  and  men. 

Up  to  the  age  of  eighteen,  six  years  represents  an 
enormous  gulf  in  the  relative  ages  of  brothers  and  sisters. 
You  have  only  to  figure  it  out  in  the  case  of  Rosalie  to 
realise  how  far  behind  she  was  always  left,  and  why, 
though  one  of  a  family  of  six,  she  occupied  a  position 
outside  the  group  and  was  a  watcher  of  them  rather  than 
a  sharer  with  them.  She  was  four  when  Robert  the  next 
above  her  was  ten,  which  is  a  baby  against  a  sturdy  and 
well-developed  giant;  when  she  was  eight  Robert  was 
fourteen,  which  is  a  greater  gulf  than  the  first;  when  she 
was  twelve  Robert  was  eighteen  which,  from  eighteen's 
point  of  view,  is  as  the  difference  between  an  aged  man 
and  an  infant;  and  when  she  was  sixteen  Robert  was 
twenty-two,  which  is  a  schoolgirl  against  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  experienced  periods  of  life.  She  came  in  as  a 
new  little  girl  in  a  big  school;  when  she  had  been  there 
eight  years  —  counting  from  four,  when  first  she  was 
conscious  of  arrival  —  she  was  still  relatively  the  same : 
there  she  was,  twelve,  with  Robert  eighteen  and  the  others 
twenty,  twenty-two,  twenty- four  and  twenty-six. 

But  there  she  is  at  eight  when  she  had  had  four  years' 
experience  from  the  day  of  first  seeing  her  father  leaping 
before  the  bull  and  thinking  it  was  perfectly  natural  that 
he  should  leap  before  the  bull.  She  had  learnt  a  tremen- 
dous lot  in  that  second  four  years.  She  knew  at  eight 
that  the  world  did  not  belong  to  her  father  and  that  on 
that  night  of  the  storm  Flora  was  right  to  call  her  a  fool 
for  believing  that  he  could  stop  the  storm.     She  knew  he 


THIS  FREEDOM  33 

was  not  nearly  so  wonderful  as  she  used  to  think  he  was; 
but  he  was  still  enormously  wonderful  and,  which  she 
thought  rather  curious,  she  began  to  see  that  he  rather 
liked  showing  her  how  wonderful  he  was.  He  could 
sharpen  a  pencil  wonderfully,  and  he  could  eat  a  herring 
wonderfully.  The  thing  discovered  was  that  he  was  very 
proud  of  how  wonderfully  he  could  sharpen  a  pencil  or  eat 
a  herring.     Strange  father ! 

"  Who  sharpened  that  pencil ?  Your  mother?  H'nf! 
I  should  think  so!  No  woman  can  sharpen  a  pencil. 
Now  look  at  me.  Watch.  I  hold  it  in  my  left  hand,  see? 
Arm  supported  against  my  body.  Now  look  how  I  cut 
at  it.  Bold,  strong  strokes,  see?  No  niggling  at  it  as  if 
a  mouse  was  nibbling  it ;  long,  bold  sweeps,  slashes.  See  ? 
Look  at  that.  Ah,  drat!  That's  because  I  was  holding 
it  down  for  you  to  see.  Watch  again.  There !  There, 
that's  the  way  to  sharpen  a  pencil.  Look  at  that.  Do  you 
see  that  long  firm  point?  See  how  clean  and  long  those 
strokes  are?  That's  the  way  to  sharpen  a  pencil.  Show 
that  to  your  mother." 

He  was  as  pleased  with  himself  and  as  proud  as  if  he 
had  turned  the  pencil  into  gold. 

Funny  father ! 

Or  how  to  eat  a  herring. 

"  Herrings !  Well,  a  herring  is  one  of  the  most  deli- 
cious fish,  if  it's  eaten  properly.  There's  a  right  way  to 
eat  a  herring  and  a  wrong  way.  Now  watch  me  and  I'll 
show  you  how  to  eat  a  herring.    Rosalie,  watch." 

"  Rosalie,  dear,"  (from  her  mother)  "  watch  while  your 
father  shows  you  how  to  eat  a  herring." 

All  eyes  on  father  demonstrating  how  to  eat  a  herring ! 

And  Rosalie  used  to  notice  this  about  the  watching  eyes. 
Her  mother's  eyes  —  most  anxiously  and  nervously  upon 
the  operation,  as  if  watching  a  thing  she  would  soon  be 
called  upon  to  perform  and  would  not  be  able  to  perform; 


34  THIS  FREEDOM 

the  eyes  of  Robert  (14)  sulkily;  of  Flora  (18)  admir- 
ingly (it  was  getting  to  be  a  complaint  in  the  family  circle 
that  Flora  "  sucked  up  "  to  father)  ;  the  eyes  of  Anna 
(20)  wearily;  the  eyes  of  Harold  (22)  contemptuously. 

The  herrings  (a  very  frequent  dish  at  the  rectory,  so 
much  cheaper  than  meat)  came  headless  to  the  table. 
First  father  nipped  off  the  tail  with  a  firm,  neat  stroke. 
Then  he  deftly  slit  the  herring  down  the  stomach.  It  fell 
into  two  exact  perfectly  divided  halves.  Then  he  lifted 
out  the  backbone,  not  one  scrap  of  flesh  adhering  to  it, 
and  laid  it  on  the  side  of  his  plate.  Then  four  firm  pres- 
sures of  his  knife  and  the  little  lateral  bones  were  exactly 
removed  and  exactly  laid  on  the  backbone.  Next  a  pre- 
cise insertion  of  his  fork  and  out  came  the  silvery  strip 
known  to  Rosalie  as  "  the  swimming  thing  "  and  was  laid 
in  its  turn  upon  the  bones,  exactly,  neatly,  as  if  it  were 
a  game  of  spillikins.  "  Now  pepper.  Plenty  of  pepper 
for  the  roe,  you  see.    There.    Now." 

And  in  about  six  mouth fuls  father's  plate  would  be  as 
clean  as  when  it  was  brought  in,  decorated  rather  than 
marred  by  the  exquisitely  neat  pile  of  the  backbone,  the 
tail,  the  little  bones,  and  the  silvery  swimming  thing. 
"There!  Delicious!  That's  the  way  to  eat  a  herring"; 
and  he  would  direct  a  glance  at  the  plate  of  Rosalie's 
mother.  Rosalie's  mother  made  a  herring  into  the  most 
frightful  mess  it  was  possible  to  imagine.  She  spent  the 
whole  of  her  time  in  removing  bones  from  her  mouth; 
and  her  plate,  when  she  was  half-way  though,  looked  to 
contain  the  mangled  remains  of  about  two  dozen  herrings. 
"  Very  few  women  know  how  to  eat  a  herring,"  Rosalie's 
father  would  say. 

Wonderful  father!  How  to  sharpen  a  pencil,  how  to 
eat  a  herring,  how  to  do  up  a  parcel,  how  to  undo  a  parcel, 
how  to  cut  your  finger  nails,  how  to  sit  with  regard  to  the 


THIS  FREEDOM  35 

light  when  you  wrote  or  read,  how  to  tie  a  knot,  how  to 
untie  a  knot.    Clever  father,  natty  father ! 

Yes,  still  enormously  wonderful  father;  but  also  rather 
strangely  proud  of  being  wonderful  father.  Rosalie  now 
was  constantly  being  struck  by  that.  It  began  to  give  her 
rather  a  funny  sensation.  She  couldn't  describe  the  sen- 
sation or  interpret  it,  but  it  was  a  feeling,  when  father 
was  glowing  with  pride  over  one  of  these  things  he  did 
so  wonderfully  well  —  a  feeling  of  being  rather  uncom- 
fortable, shy,  ashamed  —  something  like  that.  She  con- 
tracted the  habit  when  father  beamed  and  glowed  and 
looked  around  for  applause  of  giving  a  sudden  little  blink. 

And  it  w^as  the  same  in  regard  to  Robert  and  the  same 
in  regard  to  Harold.  Robert  at  the  height  of  his  exhibi- 
tions of  his  wonderfulness  caused  the  funny  feeling  and 
the  blink  in  her ;  and  Harold  at  the  height  of  his  exhibi- 
tions of  his  wonderfulness  caused  the  funny  feeling 
and  the  blink  in  her.  And  the  wonderfulness  of  Robert 
was  always  being  shown  off  by  Robert,  and  the  wonder- 
fulness of  Harold  was  always  being  shown  off  by  Harold. 
Men  liked  showing  off  how  wonderful  they  were.  .  .  . 

When  Rosalie  was  about  nine  she  one  day  was  per- 
mitted to  have  Lily  Waters  in  to  tea  with  her.  Lily 
Waters  was  the  Doctor's  little  girl,  also  nine.  For  a  great 
treat  they  had  tea  together  out  of  Rosalie's  doll's  tea 
service  in  the  room  called  the  schoolroom.  Robert  came 
home  unusually  early  from  school  and  came  into  the 
schoolroom  and  began  to  do  wonderful  things  before  the 
two  little  girls.  He  spoke  in  a  very  loud  voice  while  he 
did  them.  He  stood  on  a  footstool  on  his  head  and 
clapped  his  boots  together.  He  held  his  breath  for  sev- 
enty-five seconds  by  the  clock.  He  took  off  his  coat  and 
made  Lily  and  Rosalie  tie  a  piece  of  string  around  his 
biceps  and  then  he  jerked  up  his  arm  and  snapped  the 
string.     Wonderful  Robert!     Lily  screamed  with  delight 


36  THIS  FREEDOM 

and  clapped  her  hands,  and  the  more  she  screamed  and 
clapped,  the  louder  Robert  talked.  He  did  still  more  won- 
derful things.  He  held  a  cork  to  the  flame  of  a  match  and 
then  blacked  his  nose  and  blacked  a  moustache  with  the 
cork.  He  did  a  most  frightfully  daring  and  dangerous 
thing.  He  produced  the  stump  of  a  cigarette  from  his 
pocket  and  lit  it  and  blew  smoke  through  his  nose.  Won- 
derful Robert!  Lily  went  into  ecstasies  of  delight.  Ro- 
salie also  went  into  ecstasies  but  also  strongly  experienced 
that  funny  feeling.  While  Robert  held  his  breath  till 
his  eyes  bulged  and  till  his  face  was  crimson,  and  while 
he  danced  about  with  his  nose  blacked,  and  while  he  held 
the  cigarette  in  his  fingers  and  puffed  smoke  through  his 
nose  —  while  he  did  these  things  Rosalie  glanced  at  Lily 
(squealing)  and  felt  that  funny  feeling  of  being  rather 
shy,  uncomfortable,  ashamed;  something  like  that;  and 
blinked.  Wonderful  though  Robert  was,  she  felt  some- 
how rather  glad  when  at  last  he  went. 

And  just  the  same  with  Harold.  At  supper  one  night, 
Rosalie's  father  not  being  present,  Harold  talked  and 
talked  and  talked  about  a  call  he  had  paid  at  the  house 
of  some  ladies  in  Ashborough.  Wonderful  Harold,  to 
pay  a  call  all  by  himself!  It  appeared  that  he  had  been 
the  only  man  there,  and  when  Rosalie's  mother  said,  "  I 
wonder  you  didn't  feel  shy,  Harold,"  he  said  with  a  funny 
sort  of  "  Haw  "  sound  in  his  voice,  "  Not  in  the  least. 
Haw!  Why  on  earth  should  I  feel  shy?  Haw."  He  had 
evidently  very  much  entertained  the  party.  The  more  he 
talked  about  it  the  more  Rosalie  noticed  the  funny 
"  Haw."  "  They  must  have  been  very  glad  you  came," 
Rosalie's  mother  said. 

Harold  put  the  first  and  second  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
on  his  collar  and  gave  it  a  pull  up.  "  I  rather  —  haw  — 
think  they  were,"  Harold  said.    "  Haw." 

Rosalie  gave  that  blink. 


THIS  FREEDOM  Z7 

Years  afterwards,  when  she  was  grown  up,  a  grown 
man  boastfully  said  something  in  her  presence,  and  in  a 
flash  were  recalled  father  dissecting  a  herring,  Robert 
holding  his  breath  till  he  nearly  burst,  Harold  hitching  up 
his  collar  and  with  the  "haw"  sound  saying,  "I  rather 
think  they  were."  In  a  flash  those  childhood  scenes,  and 
instantly  with  them  interpretation  of  the  funny  feeling  and 
the  blink  that  they  had  caused :  they  had  been  the  rooting 
in  her  of  a  new  perception  added  to  the  impregnably 
rooted  impression  of  the  wonder  and  power  of  men,  —  the 
perception  that  men  knew  they  were  wonderful  and  power- 
ful and  liked  to  show  off  how  wonderful  and  powerful, 
they  were. 

They  were  superior  creatures  but  they  were  apt  to  be 
rather  make-you-blinky  creatures;  that  was  the  new  per- 
ception. 

On  the  day  after  her  eighth  birthday,  the  birthday  itself 
being  a  treat  and  a  holiday,  Rosalie  began  to  do  lessons 
with  Hilda.  Hilda,  at  sixteen,  had  "  finished  her  educa- 
tion "  as  had  Anna  and  Flora  at  the  same  age.  Harold, 
who  had  been  a  boarder  at  a  Grammar  School,  had 
stayed  there  till  he  was  eighteen;  and  Robert,  ultimately, 
continued  at  Helmsbury  Grammar  School  till  he  was 
eighteen.  It  was  apparent  —  and  it  was  another  manifes- 
tation of  the  greater  importance  of  males  —  that  boys 
had  more  education  to  finish,  or  were  permitted  longer  to 
finish  it,  than  girls. 

The  school  at  which  Anna,  Flora  and  Hilda  thus  in  the 
eight  years  between  leaving  their  mother's  knee  at  eight 
and  completing  their  education  at  sixteen,  learnt  every- 
thing it  was  possible  to  know,  was  kept  by  two  very  thin 
ladies  called  (ungrammatically)  the  Miss  Pockets.  The 
Miss  Pockets  were  daughters  of  the  former  vicar  of 
St.  Mary's  and  inhabitant  of  the  rectory,  and  on  their 


38  THIS  FREEDOM 

father  dying  and  Mr.  Aubyn  coming,  they  established 
themselves  in  a  prim  villa  near-by  and  did  what  they 
called  "took  in  pupils."  They  were  very  thin,  they  had 
very  long  thin  noses,  they  were  always  very  cold,  and  from 
the  sharp  end  of  the  long  thin  nose  of  the  elder  Miss 
Pocket  there  always  depended,  much  fascinating  Rosalie, 
a  shining  bead  of  moisture. 

Rosalie's  chief  recollection  of  the  Miss  Pockets  was  of 
being  constantly  met  by  them  as  she  approached  the  age 
of  eight,  and  of  them  always,  on  these  occasions,  fondling 
icy  hands  about  her  neck  and  saying  to  her  father  or  her 
mother,  "  And  when  will  our  new  little  pupil  be  coming 
to  us?" 

But  no  direct  reply  was  ever  given  to  this  question, 
either  by  Rosalie's  mother,  who  was  always  made  to 
look  uncomfortable  when  it  was  asked  by  the  Miss 
Pockets,  or  by  Rosalie's  father  who  always  seemed  to 
jut  out  his  nose  at  it  and  make  the  Miss  Pockets  look 
thinner  and  colder  than  ever. 

On  the  morning  of  her  eighth  birthday  Rosalie  re- 
ceived from  the  Miss  Pockets  by  post  an  illuminated 
text  provided  with  a  piece  of  red  cord  for  hanging  on 
the  wall  and  inquiring,  rather  abruptly, 

Who  Hath  Believed  Our  Report? 

Rosalie  thought  at  first  this  was  a  plaintive  question 
directly  from  the  Miss  Pockets  in  their  capacity  as 
school-teachers  and  therefore  as  licensed  makers  of  re- 
ports; but  immediately  afterwards  saw  "Isaiah"  printed 
under  it  in  discreet  characters  — 

Who  Hath  Believed  our  Report? 

— Isaiah. 

and  concluded  that  it  was  Isaiah  who  had  believed  it. 
On  the  back  was  written  in  the  tall,  thin  handwriting  of 


THIS  FREEDOM  39 

the  Miss  Podcets,  "  To  our  dear  little  pupil  Rosalie,  on 
her  eighth  birthday,  from  Agnes  and  Lydia  Pocket." 

In  the  afternoon  the  Miss  Pockets  called  at  the  rectory 
and  there  was  evidently  some  high  mystery  about  their 
visit.  Rosalie  was  in  the  study  looking  for  a  drawing 
pin  wherewith  to  affix  her  illuminated  card  to  the  wall. 
Hilda  ran  in.  "The  Miss  Pockets.  Where's  father? 
Come  out,"  and  Rosalie  was  hurriedly  run  out  and  shut 
into  the  dining-room,  leaving  the  vindication  of  Isaiah 
in  the  matter  of  the  report  on  the  table.  Opening  the 
door  to  a  chink,  Rosalie  saw  the  Miss  Pockets,  shivering, 
the  permanent  decoration  on  the  nose  of  the  elder  Miss 
Pocket  very  conspicuous  and  agitatedly  swinging,  ush- 
ered into  the  study,  and  presently  her  father  follow  his 
jutty  nose  into  the  study  after  them,  and  very  shortly 
after  that  the  Miss  Pockets  driven  out  as  it  were  by  the 
jutty  nose  and  looking  thinner  and  colder  than  ever  be- 
fore. Miss  Lydia  Pocket,  who  had  lost  the  appendage 
to  her  nose  and  looked  curiously  undressed  and  indelicate 
without  it,  was  saying  feebly,  "  But  it  was  imderstood. 
We  always  thought  it  was  understood." 

They  shuddered  away;  and  when  Rosalie  went  into 
the  study  immediately  afterwards  to  recover  her  card, 
there  was  upon  the  word  Isaiah,  as  though  somebody  had 
literally  thrown  doubt  upon  his  belief  of  the  report,  a 
large  damp  spot. 

On  the  following  day  Rosalie  began  lessons  with 
Hilda. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  lessons  with  Hilda  period  lasted  till  Rosalie  was 
twelve.  "  Take  her  off  your  mother's  hands.  That's 
what  you've  left  school  for,"  was  her  father's  instruction 
to  Hilda;  and  so  there  was  Rosalie,  put  out  from  her 
mother's  knee  to  the  schoolroom  like  a  small  new  ship 
out  from  the  haven  to  the  bay;  and  there  was  that  small 
mind  of  hers  come  in  to  the  company  of  Hilda  and  of 
Flora  and  of  Anna  with  the  obsession  that  men  were 
infinitely  more  important  and  much  more  wonderful 
than  women.  She  knew  now  that  the  world  did  not  be- 
long to  men  in  the  literal  sense,  but  belonged,  as  her 
mother  had  instructed  her,  to  God;  but  she  knew  with 
the  abundant  evidence  of  all  that  went  on  about  her  that 
everything  in  the  world  was  done  for  men  and  that 
women  were  largely  occupied  in  doing  it;  and  she  knew, 
from  the  same  testimony,  that  men  were  much  more 
interesting  to  watch  than  women,  rather  in  the  way  that 
dogs  were  much  more  interesting  than  cats.  Men,  like 
dogs,  were  much  more  satisfactory:  that  was  it.  Her 
mind  was  throwing  out  feelers  towards  the  wonders  of 
the  world  and  this  was  the  feeler  that  was  most  devel- 
oped. She  came  to  her  sisters  very  highly  sensitive  to 
the  difference  between  men  and  women.  And  her  sisters 
showed  her  the  difference. 

Anna  was  twenty  then.  Anna  had  "  finished  her  edu- 
cation "  four  years  ago.  She  had  left  school  "  to  help 
your  mother  in  the  house  "  ;  and  when  Flora,  two  years 
later,  finished  her  education  and  left  school  for  the  same 
purpose,   she   found  Anna   grooved   in  the  business   of 


THIS  FREEDOM  41 

helping  her  mother  in  the  house  and  she  was  not  in  the 
least  anxious  to  help  Anna  out  of  the  grooves  and  herself 
become  imbedded  in  them. 

This  annoyed  Anna. 

Rosalie  used  to  hear  Anna  say  to  Flora  a  dozen  times 
a  day,  "  I  really  don't  see  why  you  should  be  the  one  to 
do  nothing  but  amuse  yourself  all  day  long.  I  really 
don't." 

Flora  used  to  say,  "  Well,  you've  always  done  it  "  — 
whatever  the  duty  in  dispute  might  be  —  "  so  why  on 
earth  should  I  ?  " 

Then  either  Anna's  face  would  give  a  twitch  and  she 
would  walk  out  of  the  room,  or  her  face  would  get  very 
red  and  there  would  be  a  row. 

Or  sometimes  Flora  to  Anna's  "  I  really  don't  see 
why  —  "  would  say  enticingly,  "  Don't  you?  " 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"  Then  ask  the  Pope,"  and  Flora  would  give  a  mock- 
ing laugh  and  run  away  out  of  the  reach  of  Anna's  fury. 

The  sting  in  this  was  that  Anna  was  suspected  of  hav- 
in"-  Roman  Catholic  tendencies. 

Flora  was  very  pretty  and  had  a  gay,  bold  way.  Anna 
was  not  pretty.  She  had  a  great  habit  of  compressing 
her  lips,  especially  in  encounters  with  Flora,  and  some- 
how her  face  gave  the  impression  that  her  lips  always 
were  compressed.  That  was  the  expression  it  normally 
had;  it  was  only  when  Rosalie  saw  Anna  actually  com- 
press her  lips  that  she  realised  they  had  not  been  com- 
pressed before.  It  was  as  though  she  was  always  an- 
noyed about  something  and  then,  when  she  compressed 
her  lips,  a  little  more  annoyed  than  usual.  She  had  also 
a  permanent  affliction  which  much  puzzled  Rosalie. 
Young  men  friends  of  Harold's  frequently  called  at  the 
rectory,  and  one  afternoon,  when  two  of  them  called, 
Anna  was  the  only  one  at  home  to  entertain  them   (ex- 


42  THIS  FREEDOM 

cept  Rosalie).  Flora  and  Hilda  rushed  into  the  drawing- 
room  directly  they  came  in  and  shortly  afterwards  Ro- 
salie saw  Anna  come  out.  Anna  stood  in  the  hall  quite 
a  long  time  with  her  lips  compressed,  and  then  went  into 
the  dining-room  and  sat  down,  but  almost  at  once  got  up 
again  and  went  back  into  the  drawing-room,  and  Rosalie 
heard  Flora  call  out,  "  You  can't  join  in  now,  Anna. 
You  can't  join  in  now.  We're  in  the  middle  of  it." 
Shrieks  of  laughter  were  going  on.  When  the  young 
men  went  Flora  and  Hilda,  who  had  their  hats  on,  walked 
away  with  them.  Anna  was  left  at  the  door.  When  the 
girls  came  back  Anna  said  to  Flora,  "  I  do  think  you 
might  have  told  me  you'd  arranged  to  go  with  them  to 
see  it. 

Flora  said,  "  Oh,  darling,  I  thought  the  Pope  had  told 

you." 

They  had  the  worst  row  Rosalie  had  ever  heard  them 
have.  Anna  did  not  come  down  to  supper.  After  sup- 
per, when  Rosalie  was  in  the  room  with  only  Harold  and 
her  father  and  mother,  her  mother  spoke  of  the  scene 
there  had  been  between  Anna  and  Flora  and  it  was  then 
that  Rosalie  heard  for  the  first  time  of  Anna's  most 
strange  affliction.  Harold  said,  "Of  course,  the  fact  of 
the  matter  is  that  ever  since  Flora  left  school,  Anna's 
had  her  nose  put  out  of  joint." 

Rosalie  felt  most  awfully  sorry  for  Anna.  Often 
after  that  she  used  to  stare  at  Anna's  nose  and  the  more 
so  because  there  was  nothing  visible  the  matter  with  it. 
Anna's  nose  was  a  singularly  long  and  straight  nose; 
now  if  it  had  been  Flora's  nose  that  was  out  of  joint!  — 
for  Flora's  nose  turned  up  in  a  very  odd  way.  Rosalie 
slept  in  Anna's  room  and  that  same  night.  Anna's  dis- 
jointed nose  and  every  other  part  of  her  face  and  head 
being  covered  with  the  clothes  when  Rosalie  went  up  to 
bed,  Rosalie,  unable  to  sleep  for  curiosity  and  sympathy, 


THIS  FREEDOM  43 

got  out  of  bed  and  lit  the  candle  and  went  across  to  look 
at  Anna's  nose,  and  very  gently  felt  it  with  her  finger. 
Absolutely  nothing  amiss  to  be  seen  or  felt!  But  the 
lashes  of  Anna's  eyes  were  wet  and  there  were  stains  of 
tears  upon  the  upper  side  of  the  mysterious  nose.  It  was 
true,  then,  for  obviously  it  hurt.     And  yet  no  sign ! 

Rosalie  got  back  into  bed  feeling  of  her  own  nose 
rather  anxiously. 

Rosalie  used  formerly  to  sleep  in  Hilda's  room  and 
Flora  with  Anna,  but  she  was  changed  one  day  by  her 
sisters  (without  being  consulted  or  given  any  reason) 
and  the  new  arrangement  was  continued.  Anna  was 
very  devotional.  She  used  to  say  enormously  long 
prayers  night  and  morning.  She  prayed  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  also,  Rosalie  used  to  think  at  first,  awakened 
and  hearing  her  voice,  but  later  found  out  that  Anna 
was  talking  in  her  sleep,  a  thing  that  was  mysterious  to 
Rosalie  and  frightening.  The  room  of  Flora  and  Hilda^ 
adjoined  Anna's  and  often  at  night,  when  Rosalie  was 
awakened  by  Anna  undressing  and  lay  watching  her  at 
her  immense  prayers,  the  chattering  voices  of  Flora  and 
Hilda  could  be  heard  through  the  wall  and  shrieks  of 
high  laughter.  At  that  Anna's  shoulders  used  to  shudder 
beneath  her  nightgown  and  she  used  to  twist  herself 
lower  on  her  knees.  For  some  reason  this  also  used 
rather  to  frighten  Rosalie. 

Sometimes,  but  very  seldom,  Flora  and  Hilda  used  to 
quarrel;  sometimes,  and  more  often,  Hilda  and  Anna; 
nearly  every  day,  as  it  seemed  to  Rosalie,  Anna  and 
Flora.  Rosalie  got  to  dislike  these  quarrels  very  much. 
They  went  on  and  on  and  on;  that  was  the  disturbing 
unpleasantness  of  them.  The  parties  to  them  would  sit 
in  a  room  and  simply  keep  it  up  forever,  not  arguing  all 
the  time,  but  between  long  pauses  suddenly  coming  out 
with  things  at  one  another;  or  they  wouldn't  speak  to 


44  THIS  FREEDOM 

one  another  sometimes  for  days  together,  and  all  sorts 
of  small  enterprises  of  Rosalie's  were  interfered  with 
by  these  ruptures  of  relations.  Innumerable  things  in 
Rosalie's  life  seemed  to  her  to  depend  on  the  mutual 
good  will  of  two  quarrelers ;  many  books,  some  old  toys, 
walks,  combined  games  with  Carlo  who  was  Anna's  and 
Rover  who  was  Flora's;  innumerable  delights  with 
such  seemed  to  be  unexpectedly  stopped  because  of  "  Oh, 
no,  if  you  prefer  to  be  with  Anna  you  can  stay  with 
Anna  " ;  or,  "  Oh,  no.  If  you  like  Flora's  paints  so  much 
you  can  use  Flora's  brushes;  these  are  my  brushes."  A 
quarrel  would  in  any  case  produce  a  strained  atmosphere 
in  which  everything  became  unnatural  and  this  strained 
atmosphere  went  on  and  on  and  on. 

And  the  thing  that  Rosalie  noticed  was  the  complete 
difiference  between  these  quarrels  of  her  sisters  and  the 
quarrels  between  Harold  and  Robert.  Robert  was  rising 
between  the  years  of  fourteen  and  eighteen  in  those  days 
and  Harold  between  twenty-two  and  twenty-six.  Most 
violent  quarrels  sometimes  sprung  up  between  them  but 
they  were  physically  violent,  that  was  the  point,  and  after 
swift  and  appalling  fury,  and  terrible  kicks  from  Robert 
and  horrifying  thumps  from  Harold  they  were  astonish- 
ingly soon  over  and  done  with  and  forgotten.  On  one 
awful  day  Rosalie  saw  Robert  and  Harold  rolling  on  the 
floor  together.  Robert  bumped  Harold's  head  three  most 
frightful  bumps  on  the  floor  and  said  between  his  teeth, 
"  There !  There !  There !  "  Harold  twisted  himself  up 
and  hurled  Robert  half  across  the  room  and  then  rushed 
at  him  and  punched  him  with  punches  that  made  Robert 
go,  "Ur!    Ur!    Ur!" 

Rosalie,  at  her  age,  ought  to  have  cried  with  grief  and 
dismay  or  to  have  run  away  screaming;  but  instead  she 
only  watched  with  awe.  With  terrified  awe,  as  with  the 
terrified  awe  that  an  encounter  of  tigers  or  of  elephants 


THIS  FREEDOM  45 

at  the  Zoo  might  arouse;  but  with  awe  and  no  sort  of 
grief  as  her  sole  emotion.  Men  were  different.  There 
it  was  again!  They  did  these  fearful  things,  and  these 
fearful  things  were  much  more  satisfactory  to  behold, 
not  nearly  so  disturbing  and  aggravating  to  watch,  as 
the  interminable  bickerings  of  the  quarrels  of  her  sisters. 

Her  brothers'  quarrels  were  entirely  different  in  all 
their  aspects.  In  the  quarrels  of  her  sisters  one  or  the 
other  invariably  cried  if  the  bickering  went  far  enough. 
These  two  men,  though  Robert  especially  might  have 
been  excused  for  bellowing,  just  solidly  and  only,  with 
fearful  gasps,  thumped  and  clutched  and  strove.  Not  a 
tear!  Her  sisters'  quarrels  were  always  carried  by  one 
or  the  other  to  her  mother  or  her  father.  How  extraordi- 
narily different  Robert  and  Harold!  Their  sole  anxiety 
was  that  neither  fr.ther  nor  mother  should  be  told!  If 
any  one  threatened  to  tell,  the  two,  sinking  their  private 
heat,  w^ould  immediately  band  together  against  the  tale- 
bearer. Extraordinary  men!  To  that  particularly  fero- 
cious struggle  that  has  been  described  Anna  and  Hilda 
had  been  attracted  by  the  din,  when  Robert,  overpowered, 
was  receiving  terrible  chastisement,  and  with  cries  and 
prayers  had  somehow  separated  them.  Behold,  the  very 
first  coherent  thing  these  two  men  did  was,  while  they 
still  panted  and  glared  upon  one  another,  to  unite  in  a 
mutual  threat. 

"  And  look  out  you  don't  go  telling  father  or  mother." 
panted  Harold  to  the  girls. 

"  Yes,  mind  you  jolly  well  don't,"  panted  Robert. 

Anna  said  she  certainly  would. 

Both  the  extraordinary  creatures  unitedly  rounded  on 
Anna.  It  might  have  been  thought  that  the  battle  had 
been,  not  between  them,  but  between  them  and  the  sisters 
who  had  saved  them  one  from  another.   Astounding  men  I 

And  most  astounding  of  all  to  Rosalie  was  that  at 


46  THIS  FREEDOM 

supper,  little  more  than  an  hour  later,  Harold  and  Rob- 
ert presented  themselves  as  on  exceptionally  good  terms 
of  friendship.  They  talked  and  laughed  together.  They 
had  a  long  exchange  of  views  about  some  football  teams. 
Harold  laid  down  the  law  about  the  principle  of  four 
three-quarters  in  Rugby  football  instead  of  three  and 
Robert  listened  as  to  an  oracle.  They  had  not  been  so 
friendly  for  weeks.  And  an  hour  before  —  ! 
Yes,  men  were  different. 

And  Rosalie  found  that  her  sisters,  too,  knew  how  dif- 
ferent and  how  superior  men  were.  Flora  and  Hilda 
seemed  to  Rosalie  always  to  be  talking  about  men.  Flora 
used  to  come  into  the  schoolroom  while  Rosalie  was  at 
her  lessons  and  talk  to  Hilda.  Rosalie  was  very  fond 
of  her  lessons  and  Hilda  was  an  uncommonly  good 
teacher  and  took  a  great  interest  in  \ti  ding  Rosalie  along 
the  paths  she  had  herself  so  recently  followed.  But  di- 
rectly Flora  came  in,  Hilda's  interest  was  entirely  diverted 
to  what  Flora  had  to  say  and  to  what  she  had  to  say 
to  Flora,  and  it  was  always  about  men,  —  boys  or  men. 
Rosalie  would  at  once  be  put  to  learning  passages  or 
working  otit  exercises  and  Flora  and  Hilda  would  go 
over  to  the  window  and  talk.  They  talked  mostly  in 
whispers  with  their  heads  close  together;  they  laughed 
a  good  deal;  they  showed  one  another  letters.  Often  they 
came  over  to  the  table  and  wrote  letters.  And  they 
used  to  look  up  from  their  whisperings  and  say,  "  Go  on 
with  your  lessons,  Rosalie." 

But  it  was  very  difficult  to  go  on  while  they  whispered 
and  laughed  and  it  was  also  very  troublesome  to  have 
Hilda's  most  interesting  explanations  suddenly  cut  short 
by  the  entrance  of  Flora.  Rosalie  began  to  have  the 
habit  of  saying  "Oh,  dear!"  and  going  "Tchk!"  with 
her  tongue  when  Flora  came  in.     Also  restlessly  to  say 


THIS  FREEDOM  47 

"Oh,  dear!"  and  go  "Tchk!"  when  the  whisperings 
and  the  laughing  about  men  went  on  and  distracted  her 
attention  while  she  tried  to  do  her  exercises. 

A  new  aspect  of  men  began  to  grow  out  of  this.  Ro- 
salie began  to  feel  rather  aggrieved  against  boys  and 
men.     They  interfered. 

And  this  went  further.  Just  as  boys  and  men  spoilt 
lessons  so  they  began  to  spoil  walks.  While  Hilda  at- 
tended the  Miss  Pockets'  school  and  Rosalie  was  taught 
by  her  mother,  it  was  always  her  mother  with  whom 
Rosalie  took  walks.  Anna  "  never  cared  to  go  out  "  and 
Flora,  whose  position  in  the  house  was  more  like  that 
of  Harold  and  Robert,  did  much  as  she  liked,  and  "  drag- 
ging Rosalie  about  for  walks  "  as  she  expressed  it,  was 
not  one  of  the  things  she  liked.  Rosalie  therefore  went 
out  with  her  mother  until  Hilda  took  her  off  her  mother's 
hands,  when  the  taking  off  included  not  only  education 
but  exercise.  At  the  beginning  Hilda  showed  herself 
as  enthusiastic  and  as  entertaining  a  walker  as  she  was 
teacher.  She  was  ready  for  jolly  scrambles  through 
woods  and  over  fields,  she  was  as  keen  as  Rosalie  on 
damming  little  watercourses,  and  exploring  woodland 
tracts,  and  other  similar  delights,  and  she  had  a  most 
splendid  knowledge  of  the  names  of  plants  and  flowers 
and  birds  and  insects  and  delighted  to  tell  them  to  Ro- 
salie. Rosalie  had  loved  the  walks  with  her  mother,  al- 
ways holding  her  dear  hand,  but  she  loved  much  more, 
though  in  a  different  way,  the  walks  with  Hilda. 

Then  men  began,  in  Rosalie's  private  phrase,  to 
"  ruin  "  the  walks. 

First  Flora  took  to  joining  the  walks  and  she  and 
Hilda  talked  and  talked  together  and  always,  as  it  seemed, 
about  men,  and  Rosalie  just  trailed  along  with  them, 
their  heads  miles  above  hers  and  their  conversation 
equally  out  of  her  reach.     But  even  that  was  not  so  bad 


48  THIS  FREEDOM 

as  it  became.  At  least  there  were  only  her  sisters  and 
sometimes  they  did  talk  to  her,  or  sometimes  one  or 
other  would  break  off  from  their  chatter  and  cry  "  Oh, 
poor  Rosalie !  We've  not  been  taking  the  least  notice 
of  you,  have  we?  Now,  what  would  you  like  to  do?  " 
And  perhaps  they  would  run  races,  or  perhaps  explore, 
or  perhaps  tell  her  a  story,  and  Rosalie's  spirits  would 
come  bursting  out  from  their  dulness  and  all  would  be 
splendid. 

Not  so  when  on  the  walks  men,  from  being  talked  of, 
began  to  be  met. 

There  were  at  Robert's  Grammar  School  certain 
young  men  who  were  in  no  way  connected  with  the 
school  but  were  the  "  private  pupils  "  of  the  headmaster 
and  were  reading  for  the  universities.  One  day  Hilda 
started  for  the  walk  in  her  church  hat  and  Flora  also  in 
her  church  hat  and  her  church  gloves.  They  walked 
very  fast;  Rosalie  could  hardly  keep  up.  And  then  at  a 
corner  of  a  lane  they  suddenly  started  to  walk  very 
slowly  indeed,  and  suddenly  again  at  a  stile  two  of  these 
young  men  were  met. 

The  young  men  raised  their  hats  much  farther  than 
Rosalie  had  ever  seen  a  man  raise  his  hat  and  one  of  them 
said,  "  Well,  you  have  come  then?  " 

Flora  said,  "  Well,  we  just  happened  to  be  strolling 
along  this  way."  Then  she  said,  ''  You  needn't  imagine 
we  came  to  see  you!  "  which  Rosalie  thought  very  rude; 
but  the  young  men  seemed  to  like  it  and  all  of  them 
laughed  a  great  deal. 

Presently  they  all  started  to  walk  together,  Hilda  and 
Flora  in  the  middle  and  one  of  the  young  men  on  either 
side.  The  walk  lasted  much  later  than  the  walks  usually 
lasted  and  the  whole  way  Rosalie  trailed  along  behind; 
and  on  the  whole  afternoon  the  only  words  addressed  to 
Rosalie  by  her  sisters  came  just  as,  the  young  men  hav- 


THIS  FREEDOM  49 

ing  taken  their  leave  a  mile  away,  they  were  turning  in 
at  the  rectory  gate.  Flora  then  said,  "  Rosalie,  darling, 
don't  tell  mother  or  father  or  any  one  that  we  met  any 
one."  And  Hilda  said,  "  Yes,  remember,  Rosalie,  you're 
not  to  say  anything  about  that." 

After  that  the  young  men  were  met,  and  the  four 
walked,  and  Rosalie  trailed,  nearly  every  day. 

One  of  these  young  men  was  called  Mr.  Chalton  and 
the  other  Mr.  Ricks.  Like  all  men,  and  even  more  so, 
they  were  splendid  and  wonderful.  They  had  silver  cig- 
arette cases  and  smoked  a  lot,  and  they  wore  most  hand- 
some waistcoats  and  ties,  and  some  of  their  conversation 
that  came  back  to  Rosalie,  trailing  behind,  was  of  very 
wonderful  and  exciting  things  they  had  done  or  were 
going  to  do.  Mr.  Holland,  the  headmaster  of  the  Gram- 
mar School,  was  the  terror  of  Robert's  life,  but  it  ap- 
peared that  Mr.  Chalton  and  Mr.  Ricks  were  not  in  the 
least  afraid  of  Mr.  Holland,  and  they  talked  a  great  deal 
of  what  they  would  do  to  him  if  he  ever  tried  to  interfere 
with  them  and  a  great  deal  of  what  they  did  do  in  the 
way  of  utterly  disregarding  him.  They  were  undeniably 
splendid  and  wonderful,  but  they  utterly  ruined  Rosalie's 
walks  and  they  greatly  intensified  Rosalie's  new  feelings 
towards  men  and  boys,  —  that  men  and  boys  were  a 
great  nuisance  and  spoilt  things. 

Time  went  along.  Other  young  men  were  met.  In 
the  holidays  quite  a  number  of  young  men  came  for  their 
vacations  to  their  homes  In  Ibbotsfield  and  the  sur- 
rounding district.  Certain  of  these,  unlike  the  Grammar 
School  private  pupils,  called  openly  at  the  rectory  on  one 
pretext  or  another,  but  they  were  nevertheless  also  met 
secretly  by  Flora  and  Hilda,  ruined  the  walks  precisely 
as  Messrs.  Chalton  and  Ricks  had  first  ruined  them,  and 
were  on  no  account  to  be  mentioned  by  Rosalie  to  her 
father  or  mother. 


50  THIS  FREEDOM 

The  reason  for  this  secrecy  was  never  explained  to 
Rosalie  and  the  secrecy  oppressed  Rosalie.  It  took  not 
only  the  form  of  being  a  thing  she  was  not  able  to  tell 
to  her  mother,  and  Rosalie  was  in  the  habit  of  telling 
everything  she  did  to  her  mother,  but  it  took  also  the 
form  of  mysterious  and  vaguely  alarming  perils  during 
the  walks.  An  immense  watchfulness  was  kept  up 
against  chance  encounters  with  people.  One  of  the  party 
would  often  cry,  "  Look!  Who's  this?  "  and  the  young 
men  would  separate  from  the  girls  and  appear  as  if  they 
were  walking  by  themselves.  Sometimes  they  would 
break  right  away  and  run  off  and  not  be  met  again. 
Very  often  Rosalie  would  be  sent  on  ahead  to  a  turning 
and  told  to  come  back  at  once  if  anybody  was  to  be  seen 
and  then  would  be  examined  as  to  who  the  person  was. 
Sometimes  she  v^as  posted  to  keep  watch  while  the  girls 
and  the  young  men  slipped  off  somewhere,  over  a  gate 
or  into  a  barn.  She  got  to  know  by  sometimes  rushing 
in  with  warnings  that  Flora  and  Hilda  on  these  occasions 
smoked  the  young  men's  cigarettes.  Then  when  they 
got  home  they  would  rush  up  to  their  room  and  wash 
their  teeth  and  put  scent  on  themselves.  And  invariably 
when  the  young  men  took  their  leave  at  the  end  of  a 
walk  there  would  be  long  and  close  whisperings  in  which 
were  always  to  be  heard  the  w^ords,  "  Well,  say  you 
were  —  ";  or  "Look  here,  we'll  say  we  were  —  "  and 
generally,  "  Go  away,  Rosalie.  There's  nothing  for  you 
to  listen  to." 

It  all  had  the  effect  of  making  Rosalie  feel  unhappy 
and  rather  frightened.  She  sometimes  asked,  "  Why 
mustn't  I  say  anything  to  mother?"  She  was  always 
told,  and  only  told,  "  Because  father  doesn't  like  us  meet- 
ing men." 

No  reason  why  father  should  not  like  them  meeting 
men  was  ever  given,  and  Rosalie,  ceaselessly  disturbed 


THIS  FREEDOM  51 

by  the  concealment,  could  never  imagine  what  the  reason 
could  be.  There  could  be  no  reason  that  she  could  imag- 
ine; and  she  was  thus  immensely  taken  aback  when  one 
evening  at  supper  her  father  made  a  most  surprising 
statement :  "  The  girls  have  no  chance  of  ever  meeting 
men  in  this  infernal  place." 

Amazing ! 

Rosalie's  father  had  been  abusing  Ibbotsfield  and 
everything  that  pertained  to  Ibbotsfield.  Some  question 
of  expenses  had  started  him.  He  was  storming  in  his 
wild  way,  addressing  himself  to  Rosalie's  mother  but 
haranguing  at  large  to  all,  everybody  sitting  in  silence 
and  with  oppressed  faces,  avoiding  looking  at  one  another 
and  avoiding  especially  the  eyes  of  father.  They 
were  literally  ground  down  with  poverty,  Rosalie's  father 
was  saying.  He  didn't  know  what  was  going  to  happen 
to  them  all.  "  It's  all  this  place,  this  infernal,  buried- 
alive  place.  The  girls  ought  to  be  moving  about  and 
seeing  people.  How  can  they?  Very  well.  My  mind's 
made  up.  There's  my  brother  Tom  in  India.  He  could 
have  one  of  the  girls.  There's  your  sister  Mrs.  Pounce 
in  London.  She's  Rosalie's  godmother.  What's  she 
ever  done  for  Rosalie?  Very  well.  My  mind's  made 
up.  I  shall  write  to  Tom  and  I  shall  write  to  Belle.  I 
shall  tell  them  how  we  are  situated.  It's  humiliating  to 
have  to  tell  them  but  what's  humiliation?  I'm  accus- 
tomed to  humiliation.  Ever  since  we  came  here  I  have 
eaten  the  bread  and  drunk  the  water  of  humiliation.  Now 
the  children  are  growing  up  to  share  it.  What  can  they 
do  in  this  loathsome  and  forsaken  and  miserable  place? 
What  chance  have  the  girls  got  ?    Can  you  tell  me  that  ?  " 

He  glared  at  Rosalie's  mother.  It  was  clear  that  he 
regarded  her  as  to  blame.  Rosalie  thought  that  her  dear 
mother  must  be  to  blame.  Her  mother  looked  so  beaten 
and  frightened.     There  was  glistening  in  her  eyes.     Ro- 


52  THIS  FREEDOM 

salie's  heart  felt  utterly  desolated  for  her  mother.  She 
wished  like  anything  she  could  say  something  for  her 
dear  mother.  Then  most  amazingly  the  chance  to  say 
something  came. 

"Can  you  tell  me  that?"  cried  Rosalie's  father. 
"  What  chance  have  the  girls  of  ever  meeting  men  in 
this  infernal  place?  " 

Rosalie  burst  out,  "  Oh,  but  father,  nearly  every 
day—" 

"  Rosalie,  don't  interrupt !  "  cried  Flora  very  sharply. 

"  Rosalie,  be  quiet!  "  cried  Hilda. 

Father  glared  and  then  went  on  and  on. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  chain  of  most  startling  up- 
heavals. It  was  also,  and  the  upheavals  were  also,  a 
new  manifestation  to  Rosalie  of  the  all-importance  of 
men.  After  supper,  in  the  first  place,  Flora  and  Hilda, 
taking  Rosalie  very  severely  to  task  for  her  perilous  out- 
burst, explained  to  her  that  the  men  they  met  were  not 
the  kind  of  men  that  father  meant  they  ought  to  meet. 
It  was  necessary,  it  was  essential,  they  explained,  for 
every  girl  to  meet  men  she  could  marry.  That  was  what 
every  girl  had  to  do.  Men  —  surely  you  understand  that, 
Rosalie  —  had  all  the  money  and  everything  and  met 
girls  and  asked  them  to  marry.  Those  men  sometimes 
met  on  walks,  you  little  stupid,  were  too  young  and  had 
no  money  yet.  "  There,  that's  enough,"  they  explained. 
"  Anyhow,  we  shan't  be  meeting  them  much  more.  One 
of  us  is  probably  going  to  India;  you  heard  what  father 
said,  didn't  you?  .  .  .  Well,  of  course  you  can't  under- 
stand properly.  You  will  when  you're  grown  up.  Surely 
that's  quite  enough  for  you  to  understand  at  present. 
.  .  .  How  can  a  woman  live  if  she  doesn't  marry,  stupid? 
She  must  have  money  to  live  and  it  is  men  who  have 
the  money,   .    ,    .  Well,  of  course  they  do  because  they 


THIS  FREEDOM  53 

earn  it;  look  at  Harold;  and  Robert  will  have  money 
when  he's  a  little  older.  .  .  .  Well,  how  can  women? 
Now,  I  said  that's  enough  and  it  is  enough." 

It  was  enough  and  most  satisfactorily  enough  for  one 
purpose.  It  was  the  first  explanation  of  men  as  a  race 
apart  from  women  that  Rosalie  had  ever  received  and 
it  precisely  bore  out  all  that  she  had  conceived  about 
them.  It  affirmed  her  perception  of  the  wonder  and 
greatness  of  men  as  compared  with  women.  It  intensi- 
fied that  perception. 

Wonderful  men!  Marvellous  and  most  fortunate 
men! 

And  then  the  chain  of  most  startling  upheavals  began. 
Fr'iher  wrote  to  Uncle  Tom  in  India.  Father  wrote  to 
Aunt  Belle,  Mrs.  Pyke  Pounce,  in  London.  What  he 
wrote  was  not  to  be  known  by  Rosalie,  outside  the  rec- 
tory wheel.  The  others  knew,  for  father,  wath  enormous 
pride  at  his  wonderful  epistolatory  style  in  his  voice, 
was  heard  reading  the  letter  to  them.  But  the  others, 
of  course,  knew  also  what  Rosalie  never  realised,  the 
grinding  poverty  of  the  rectory.  She  knew  no  other  life 
than  the  herrings,  the  makeshifts,  and  the  general  shab- 
biness  of  the  rectory.  It  was  not  till  long  afterwards 
that,  looking  back,  she  realised  the  pinching  and  the 
screwing  that  served  —  almost  —  to  make  ends  meet. 

So  father  wrote.  India  was  far,  London  was  near. 
Aunt  Belle's  reply  came  while  the  letter  to  Uncle  Tom 
was  still  upon  the  sea.  Such  a  reply!  Wonderful  father 
to  win  such  a  reply  from  Aunt  Belle !  ''  You  see  what 
it  is  to  be  able  to  write  a  telling  and  forceful  letter!" 
cried  father.  Such  an  exciting  reply!  Aunt  Belle  was 
coming  on  a  visit  "  to  talk  it  over  and  see  what  she  could 
do." 

Aunt  Belle  came. 


CHAPTER   VI 

Oh,  a  red  carpet,  a  red  carpet  for  Aunt  Belle,  Mrs. 
Pyke  Pounce,  to  come  into  the  story!    And  if  at  the  end 
of  the  red  carpet  there  could  be  an  "  At  Home  "  in  the 
splendid    drawing-room    of    Aunt    Belle,    Mrs.     Pyke 
Pounce,    at    Pilchester    Square,    Notting    Hill,    an    At 
Home  with  about  sixty-five  ladies  crammed  into  it,  all 
of   them   wives   of  most   successful   and   well-off  men, 
mostly  retired   from  the  Indian  Army  and  the  Ind"an 
Civil  Service,  and  all  of  them  chattering  ecstatically,  and 
nibbling,  and  pluming  themselves,  and  tinkling  their  tea- 
cups, and  Aunt  Belle,  Mrs.  Pyke  Pounce,  enthroned  in 
their  midst,  and  owning  everything  and  seeming  to  own 
her  five  and  sixty  guests,  and  chattering  and  nibbling 
and  pluming  and  tinkling  more  ecstatically  than  any ;  and 
then  if  there  could  come  into  them  beautiful  cousin  Lae- 
titia  (when  about  fifteen)   with  sleek  black  hair  beauti- 
fully ribboned  behind,   and   with   pale,   fine  brow,   and 
wearing  the  sweetest  white  frock,  and  if  she  could  move 
delightfully  about  among  her  mother's  guests,  and  then 
play  the  sweetest  little  trifle  on  the  pianoforte  to  the  de- 
lighted murmurs  of  the  five  and   sixty   guests   of  her 
mother   ("She's  under  Pflunk.     The  great  Pflunk!"); 
and  then  if  there  could  come  in   from  the  City  Uncle 
Pyke,   Colonel   Pyke   Pounce,   R.E.,    (retired)    now   di- 
rector  of    several   highly   important   companies,    and    if 
Uncle  Pyke,  Colonel  Pyke  Pounce,  R.E.,  could  stand  on 
the  hearthrug  with  his  massy  jowl  and  his  determined 
stomach,  and  grunt,  and  rattle  the  money  in  his  pockets, 
and  grunt  again;  and  if  then  there  could  come  in  the  new 


THIS  FREEDOM  55 

parlour  maid  of  Aunt  Belle,  Mrs.  Pyke  Pounce,  with  her 
tallness  and  her  deftness  and  her  slight,  very  slight,  in- 
solence of  air,  and  all  the  five  and  sixty  gazing  upon  her 
as  haughty  but  envious  patricians  gazing  upon  a  slave, 
and  when  she  had  gone  swishing  out  if  Aunt  Belle,  Mrs. 
Pyke  Pounce,  could  tell  all  the  sixty  and  five  of  her  tall- 
ness, her  deftness  and  her  slight,  very  slight,  insolence 
of  manner 

Oh,  if  there  could  be  this  and  these  and  a  fine  red 
carpet,  how  exactly  and  how  fittingly  would  Aunt  Belle, 
Mrs.  Pyke  Pounce,  step  upon  the  scene ! 

"Dear  thing!"  That  was  Rosalie's  portrait  and 
thought  of  her  in  long  after  years.  Dear  thing!  The 
drawing-room  of  her  crowded  triumphs  is  now  the 
shabby  drawing-room  of  a  second-rate  boarding  house; 
the  jolly  horse  bus  she  used  so  commandingly  to  stop  in 
the  Holland  Park  Avenue  and  so  regally  to  enter  (whip- 
waving  driver,  cap-touching  conductor)  long  has  given 
place  to  a  thundering  motor  saloon  that  stops  whereso- 
ever it  listeth  and  wherein  Aunt  Belles  and  old-clothes 
women  fight  to  hang  by  a  strap. 

Dear  thing!  Her  ownership  of  five  and  sixty  guests  is 
exchanged  for  ownership  of  not  more  than  seven  and 
fifty  inches  of  cold  earth  in  Brompton  Cemetery.  She  is 
passed  and  Uncle  Pyke,  Colonel  Pyke  Pounce,  R.E.,  is 
grunted  past  to  lay  himself  beside  her.  They  are  passed. 
Upreared  upon  her  and  upon  him  is  a  stupendous  granite 
chunk  (in  a  way  not  unlike  Uncle  Pyke  on  his  hearth- 
rug) erected  by  their  sorrowing  daughter.  She  is  passed ; 
she  came  into  Rosalie's  life  and  Rosalie  crossed  her  life 
and  she  never  forgave  Rosalie. 

Dear  thing !    Lie  lightly  on  her,  stones  1 

She  came  to  the  rectory  "  to  talk  it  over  and  see  what 
can  be  done  "  for  a  week's  visit,  and  she  stepped  out  of 


56  THIS  FREEDOM 

the  cab,  all  the  family  assembled  to  greet  her,  a  new  and 
most  surprising  figure  such  as  Rosalie  had  never  seen 
before.  She  was  dressed  in  startling  fashions  of  a  most 
wonderful  richness,  and  she  had  immense  plumes  in  her 
hat  that  nodded  when  she  moved  and  trembled  when  she 
stood  still,  and  she  was  herself  either  always  nodding 
with  glittering  animation  or  straightening  her  back  and 
quivering  as  if  straining  at  a  leash  and  just  about  to 
burst  it  and  go  off.  She  was  like  Rosalie's  mother  and 
yet  not  a  bit  like  her.  She  was  older  and  yet  terribly 
brisker  and  stronger.  Those  were  the  days  when  frosted 
Christmas  cards  were  of  the  artistic  marvels  of  the  age, 
and  Aunt  Belle  beside  Rosalie's  mother  somehow  made 
Rosalie  think  of  a  frosted  card  beside  one  of  the  plain 
cards.  When  Rosalie's  mother  was  in  a  room  you  often 
might  not  know  she  was  there;  but  when  Aunt  Belle 
was  in  a  room  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  there  except 
Aunt  Belle.  She  began  to  talk,  in  a  voice  as  high  as  the 
house,  while  she  was  still  descending  from  the  cab  on 
her  arrival,  and  the  only  time  Rosalie  ever  saw  her  not 
talking  was  during  service  in  Church  on  Sunday,  when 
she  was  alternately  glittering  or  whispering  or  else  bend- 
ing down  so  extraordinarily  low  that  Rosalie  thought 
she  was  going  to  lie  prone  upon  the  floor. 

Dear  thing !     She  was  so  kind  to  Rosalie  and  so  kind 

to  them  all,  and  yet And  yet  they  all,  except  Rosalie 

who  was  too  small  (then)  to  appreciate  the  resented 
quality  in  Aunt  Belle's  kindness,  and  Rosalie's  mother 
who  was  too  gentle  to  resent  anything,  and  yet  they  all, 
save  Rosalie  and  her  mother,  loathed  and  abominated 
Aunt  Belle.  It  was  her  way  of  doing  things.  She  gave 
kind  gifts,  but  it  was  the  way  she  gave  them.  She  ad- 
mired everything  and  every^body  in  the  rectory,  but  it  was 
the  way  she  admired.  She  said  most  kind  and  affec- 
tionate things,  but  it  was  her  way  of  saying  them. 


THIS  FREEDOM  57 

"Why,  how  very  nice  indeed!"  That  was  her  in- 
sistent comment  upon  everything  in  the  rectory.  But  the 
tone  was,  *'  How  very  nice  indeed — for  you." 

That  was  the  trouble.  That  was  what  made  Harold 
(who  at  twenty-six  was  getting  very  like  his  father)  hurl 
about  a  thousand  miles  over  the  garden  wall  the  three 
apples  Aunt  Belle  gave  him  as  his  share  of  the  "  very 
best  apples  from  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores  "  which  she 
brought  down  with  other  "  goodies  "  for  "  the  dear  chil- 
dren '' ;  and  made  him  grit  his  teeth  after  she  had  been 
in  the  house  two  days  and  cry,  "  Dash  her!  Poor  rela- 
tions; that's  how  she  treats  us!  I'm  dashed  if  I'm  a 
poor  relation.  I'm  earning  three  pound  ten  a  week  at 
the  Bank  and  I  bet  that  appalling  old  Uncle  Pyke  didn't 
get  it  or  anything  like  it  at  my  age!  " 

Dear  thing!  "She  meant  it  kindly."  That  was  the 
sweet  apologetic  excuse  with  which  Rosalie's  mother  fol- 
lowed the  track  of  the  storms  Aunt  Belle  aroused  and 
with  which  she  sought  to  abate  them.  "  She  means  it 
kindly.     She  means  it  kindly,  dear." 

It  should  be  Aunt  Belle's  epitaph.  It  ought  to  be 
graven  upon  that  granite  chunk  in  Brompton  Cemetery. 
"  She  meant  it  kindly!  " 

Issuing  from  the  cab,  Aunt  Belle  began  by  kissing 
Rosalie's  mother  in  a  most  astonishing  series  of  kisses 
that  whizzed  from  cheek  to  cheek  so  that  it  was  a  miracle 
to  Rosalie  that  the  two  noses  did  not  collide  and  her  dear 
mother's  be  knocked  right  ofT;  and  then  most  enthusi- 
astically kissed  all  the  family,  applying  to  each  the  phrase 
with  which  she  began  on  Harold  "  Well,  well,  so  this  is 
Harold!"  (As  if  it  were  the  most  astounding  and  un- 
expected thing  in  the  world  that  it  was  Harold.)  "  So 
this  is  Harold !  Why,  what  a  great  big  clever  fellow, 
and  what  a  comfort  to  your  dear  mother,  I  am  sure!" 
And  then  gazed  rapturously  upon  the  house  and  said  to 


58  THIS  FREEDOM 

Rosalie's  mother  and  to  them  all,  "  Well,  well,  what  a 
very,  very  nice  house,  to  be  sure !  "  ' 

{"For  you!") 

She  meant  it  kindly.  Her  manner  of  talking  about 
herself  and  about  her  possessions  was  not  that  of  brag- 
ging or  of  conscious  superiority;  it  was,  to  the  whole 
rectory  family,  and  to  all  poorer  than  herself  wherever 
she  met  them,  that  of  one  entertaining  a  party  of  chil- 
clren  —  of  a  kind  lady  telling  stories  to  a  group  of  round- 
eyed  infants.  When  she  first  had  tea  on  the  afternoon 
of  her  arrival  she  gazed  upon  the  silver  teapot  as  it  was 
carried  in  and  exclaimed,  "  Well,  well,  what  a  very,  very 
handsome  teapot!  And  hot-water  jug  to  match!  How 
very,  very  nice !  Now  how  ever  do  you  think  I 
keep  my  water  hot  at  tea?  I  have  a  very  nice 
service  all  in  silver  gilt!  It  looks  just  like  gold!  And 
there's  a  kettle  to  match  with  a  spirit  flame  under  it.  The 
maid  brings  in  the  kettle  boiling  and  we  just  light  the 
spirit  with  a  match  and  there  it  is  gently  boiling  all  the 
time!" 

Dusk  drew  in  and  the  lamps  were  lit.  "  Lamps !  " 
ecstatically  exclaimed  Aunt  Belle!  "How  nice!  And 
Hilda  keeps  the  lamps  clean,  does  she?  What  a  dear, 
helpful  girl  and  how  very,  very  bright  and  nice  they  are ! 
Now  what  do  you  think?  In  my  house,  everywhere, 
even  in  the  kitchen,  w^e've  got  this  new  electric  light! 
Your  kind  uncle  Pyke  had  it  put  in  for  me.  Installed, 
as  they  call  it.  Now,  just  fancy,  all  you  have  is  a  little 
brass  knob  by  each  door,  and  you  just  touch  a  little 
switch,  and  there's  your  light!  No  matches,  no  trouble, 
just  click!  and  there  you  are.  Of  course  it  was  very 
expensive,  but  your  Uncle  Pyke  insisted  upon  my  having 
it.  He  always  will  insist  upon  my  having  everything  of 
the  best." 


THIS  FREEDOM  59 

Dear  thing!  The  echo  of  her  ceaseless  tongue  brings 
her  exactly  to  Hfe  again  —  gUttering,  chattering,  plum- 
ing, presenting,  praising  —  her  servants !  her  house !  her 
parties !  her  friends !  her  daughter !  her  husband !  —  Oh, 
yes,  a  red  carpet !  a  red  carpet  for  Aunt  Belle,  Mrs.  Pyke 
Pounce,  to  come  into  the  story,  and  so  (at  the  end  of 
her  visit)  into  Rosalie's  life  like  this: 

''  And  Rosalie  is  going  away  to  school !  To  a  boarding 
school  in  London  where  there  will  be  ever  so  many  very 
nice  playmates  of  her  own  age,  and  such  romps,  and 
such  good  wholesome  food,  and  such  nice,  kind,  clever 
mistresses !  Why,  what  a  lucky,  lucky  girl !  There,  Ro- 
salie, what  do  you  think  of  that?  You  are  my  godchild, 
and  I  and  your  kind  uncle  Pyke  are  going  to  send  you  to 
school  and  pay  for  your  education  because  of  course  we 
are  well  oft'  and  can  afford  it  and  your  dear  mother  and 
father  can't.  There !  Now  isn't  that  delightful  ?  Come 
and  give  me  a  nice  kiss  then.    The  dear  child!  " 

Tremendous  moment !  Supernal  upheaval !  First  and 
greatest  upheaval  of  the  chain  of  upheavals !  Rosalie 
was  to  go  away  to  school ! 

That  was  at  the  rectory  breakfast  table  on  the  last 
morning  of  the  visit,  and  that  was  Aunt  Belle,  Mrs.  Pyke 
Pounce,  coming  into  Rosalie's  life.  "  Come  and  give  me 
a  kiss  then'';  that  was  kind,  kind  Aunt  Belle,  inviting 
acknowledgment  of  her  kindness  and  the  kindness  of 
Uncle  Pyke  (with  a  cheque)  and  the  kindness  of  Cousin 
Laetitia  (with  a  box  of  beautiful  cast-off  clothes  that 
would  do  beautifully  for  Rosalie's  school  outfit).  "The 
dear  child !  "  That  was  Aunt  Belle's  acknowledgment 
of  Rosalie's  most  dutiful  and  most  affectionate  and  most 
delighted  kiss.  (Most  amazed  and  excited  and  rather 
fearful  Rosalie !  Going  to  school !  Going  away  to  a 
boarding  school  in  London!) 


60  THIS  FREEDOM 

"  The  dear  child !  "  Such  a  warm  and  loving  kiss 
from  Rosalie !  And  time  was  to  prove  it  the  kiss  of 
Judas !  Yes,  in  a  few  years,  "  I've  done  everything  for 
you!"  Aunt  Belle  was  to  cry.  "Everything!  And  this 
is  the  return  I  get !  " 


CHAPTER  VTI 

Next,  in  its  turn,  and  exactly  a  fortnight  before  the 
beginning  of  the  term  at  which  RosaHe  was  to  join  the 
boarding  school  in  London,  came  the  letter  from  Uncle 
Tom  in  India,  and  with  it  the  beginning  of  the  second 
upheaval  in  the  chain  of  upheavals. 

All  of  this  upheaval  was  very  bewildering  to  Rosalie. 
She  never  understood  it  properly.  At  the  beginning  it 
had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  Anna,  and  yet  Anna  from 
the  very  first  reading  of  Uncle  Tom's  letter —  All  that 
Rosalie  understood  of  it  was  this. 

First  the  letter  came.  Tremendous  excitement !  Father 
in  wild  excitement,  Flora  and  Hilda  in  frantic  excite- 
ment, every  one  in  highest  excitement.  Father  read  the 
letter  aloud  at  breakfast  to  Rosalie's  mother  and  to  the 
girls.  Such  a  splendid  letter,  said  father.  Really,  Tom 
was  a  splendid  fellow,  said  father.  He  had  wronged 
Tom.  He  had  thought  Tom  selfish  in  his  wealthy  indif- 
ference. By  Jove,  Tom  wasn't.  "  By  Jove,  the  way 
Tom  wrote  almost  brought  tears  to  your  eyes.  Listen 
to  this.     Listen,  mother.     Listen,  you  girls." 

Uncle  Tom,  said  the  letter,  would  by  all  means,  old 
man,  have  one  of  the  girls.  He'd  no  idea  that  things 
were  so  bad  with  you.  Poor  old  man !  Why  didn't  you 
tell  us  before?  He  was  sending  home  a  small  draft  to 
Field  and  Company,  his  bankers,  to  help  towards  the 
girl's  outfit  and  her  passage  money.  "  *  Which  girl  shall 
you  send?  '  you  ask.  Well,  it's  no  good  asking  us,  old 
man.  You  must  decide  that  for  yourselves.  She'll  be 
abundantly  welcome,  whichever  it  is,  and  we  can  promise 


62  THIS  FREEDOM 

her  a  jolly  good  time.  We  are  at  Simla  most  of  the  year. 
If  you  want  my  advice  which  girl  to  send,  send  the 
pretti  —  " 

Father  stopped  reading. 

Rosalie  was  staring  at  Anna.  Anna's  face,  which 
had  been  pale,  suddenly  went  crimson.  The  suddenness 
and  the  violence  of  it  was  extraordinary.  One  moment 
she  had  been  pale.  In  the  next  she  was  burning  red. 
It  was  exactly  as  if  a  crimson  paint  had  suddenly  been 
dashed  over  the  whole  of  her  face.  It  was  extraordi- 
nary. Whatever  was  it?  That  nose  of  hers,  perhaps? 
a  sudden  frightful  twinge  like  Rosalie  once  had  had  a 
sudden  most  awful  jump  in  a  tooth?  But  Anna  didn't 
say  anything  and  no  one  but  Rosalie  seemed  to  notice  it. 
They  were  all  intent  upon  father.  So  intent!  Flora's 
eyes  were  simply  shining! 

And  Flora's  eyes  soon  after  that  were  shining  more 
than  ever.  She  was  wild  with  excitement.  Rosalie 
heard  the  news  just  before  tea.  Flora  was  going  to  India 
to  Uncle  Tom ! 

"  Oh,"  cried  Flora,  "  I'm  so  excited  I  simply  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  myself!"  It  was  all  arranged.. 
Fadier  had  settled  it.  She  was  to  go  in  about  six  weeks' 
time.  Very  shortly  she  was  to  go  up  to  London  with 
father  and  buy  heaps  of  clothes  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
They  were  going  to  stay  at  a  hotel.  "  Not  with  Aunt 
Belle,  thank  goodness!  "  said  Flora.  "  At  a  hotel !  Fancy 
that ! "  Mother  wasn't  going  and  Flora  was  glad 
mother  wasn't  going.  She  would  have  a  much  better 
time  with  father.  Father  had  decided  everything.  He 
had  decided  that  mother  couldn't  leave  him  in  the  rectory 
with  all  the  housekeeping  to  look  after,  and  the  change 
would  do  him  TOod,  and  Aunt  Belle  would  be  able  to 
help  with  the  shopping.  They  were  going  to  see  some 
theatres  and  all  kinds  of  things  and  were  going  to  have 


THIS  FREEDOM  63 

a  most  splendid  time  and  then,  soon  afterwards  —  India  1 
"  Oh,  I  shall  go  mad  with  excitement  in  a  minute!  "  cried 
Flora. 

The  next  thing  was  in  the  evening.  Rosalie,  searching 
for  her  mother  to  ask  her  something,  could  not  find  her. 
She  went  into  her  mother's  bedroom  and  there  was  the 
most  surprising  thing.  There  was  Anna  on  her  knees  by 
her  mother  and  her  head  on  her  mother's  lap  and  Anna 
was  sobbing;  and  she  was  crying  in  her  sobs,  "  But  it's 
my  right!     I'm  the  eldest.     It's  my  right!  " 

Rosalie  stood  there,  unnoticed,  amazed.  Whatever 
was  it? 

Rosalie's  mother  stroked  Anna's  head  and  spoke  very 
softly,  "My  darling!  My  darling!"  She  said,  "My 
darling,  your  father  has  decided.  Your  father  knows 
best.     Men  always  know  best,  my  darling." 

"  It's  my  right,  mother.  It's  my  right.  It's  always 
Flora.     Oh,  why  should  it  always  be  Flora?" 

"  Dear  Anna.  Poor  Anna.  You  must  be  reasonable, 
dear  Anna.  We  women  must  always  be  reasonable. 
Don't  you  see  that  your  father  thinks  of  me?  He  thinks 
my  eldest  girl  —  my  dear  eldest  girl  —  ought  to  stay  at 
home  to  look  after  her  mother.  It's  on  my  account,  dear 
Anna.     He  thinks  of  me." 

"  Oh,  mother,  what's  the  good  of  telling  me  that?  A 
lot  he  thinks  of  you  or  ever  has!  Why  is  he  going  up 
to  London  with  Flora  when  it's  your  place  to  go?  A  lot 
he  thinks  of  you !  You  say  we  must  be  reasonable.  You 
can  be.  You've  been  unselfish  all  your  life.  I  can't  be. 
Not  in  this.  I've  never  had  a  pleasure  in  my  life;  I've 
never  had  a  chance;  I've  never  had  anything  done  for 
me.  Ever  since  I  can  remember  it's  always  been  Flora, 
Flora,  Flora.  Now  there's  this.  I'm  getting  on,  mother. 
I'm  nearly  twenty- four.  What  have  I  got  to  look  for- 
ward  to?      Flora's    younger.    Flora's    different.      She'll 


64  THIS  FREEDOM 

have  lots  of  chances  of  enjoying  herself.  This  is  my 
right.     It's  my  right,  mother." 

"  My  dear  Anna.  My  eldest  girl.  My  first  dear,  sweet 
girlie.  How  could  I  do  without  you  ?  How  happy  we've 
been.     How  happy  we  will  be." 

Rosalie  crept  away. 

After  a  time  Flora  and  her  father  went  away  on  the 
great  visit  to  London.  They  were  to  be  away  over  two 
Sundays.  A  clergyman  was  coming  from  Ashborough 
to  take  service  at  the  church.  Rosalie's  father  went  off 
in  spirits  as  high  and  youthful  as  the  spirits  of  Flora. 
For  days  before  he  was  quite  a  different  man.  Every- 
body was  asked  to  choose  a  present  which  he  would  bring 
back.  Everybody  chose  with  much  excitement  and  chaff- 
ing except  Anna,  who  said  she  could  not  think  of  any- 
thing. At  meals  father  kept  on  saying  how  he  wished  he 
could  regularly  make  a  point  of  getting  up  to  town  for 
a  bit,  it  made  all  the  difference  being  able  to  get  away 
from  this  infernal  place  for  a  bit.  When  herrings  were 
on  the  table  he  actually  came  round  and  did  her  herring 
for  Rosalie's  mother  and  Rosalie's  mother  was  able  to 
eat  the  whole  of  it  and  said  how  delicious  it  was  and  how 
clever  father  was. 

It  was  all  splendid.  Rosalie  had  never  known  such  a 
jolly  spirit  in  the  house.  The  only  thing  that  spoilt  Ro- 
salie's happiness  in  the  new  jolly  spirit  was  the  nights 
in  Anna's  room.  Anna  was  most  frightening  to  Rosalie. 
She  prayed  now  longer  than  ever,  her  shoulders  moving 
beneath  her  nightgown  as  if  she  was  shuddering  all  the 
time  she  prayed.  And  at  night  she  talked  more  than 
ever  in  her  sleep;  also  she  used  to  get  out  of  bed  at  night 
and  walk  about  the  room  and  talk  aloud  to  herself.  It 
was  frightening. 

Then  Flora  and  father  were  in  London  and  tremen- 
dous long  letters  came  from  Flora  to  her  mother  and  to 


THIS  FREEDOM  65 

Hilda  —  all  they  were  buying,  heaps  of  dresses  and  un- 
derclothes and  white  drill  coats  and  skirts  and  a  riding 
habit  and  goodness  knows  what  all.  "  A  regular  trous- 
seau!" wrote  Flora  with  about  seventeen  marks  of  ex- 
clamation after  the  word.  And  all  they  were  seeing  — 
they  had  been  to  the  Lyceum  Theatre  and  seen  Mr.  Henry 
Irving  and  Miss  Ellen  Terry  and  to  the  Savoy  and  seen 
"  The  Mikado."  Every  moment  of  the  day  was  taken 
up  and  half  the  night.  Oh,  this  was  a  change  from  Ib- 
botsfield  I 

Anna  would  never  listen  to  the  letters.  When  they 
were  read  out  she  either  would  put  her  fingers  in  her 
ears  or  go  out  of  the  room.  And  yet,  curiously,  she  often 
later  in  the  day  would  say  in  a  funny  constricted  voice, 
"  Let  me  see  Flora's  letter.  Give  it  to  me,  will  you 
please?  "    And  would  take  it  away  and  read  it  by  herself. 

Anna  was  stranger  and  stranger  in  her  manner  and  in 
her  behaviour  at  night  Rosalie  came  quite  to  dread  the 
nights.  Anna  began  to  pray  out  loud.  She  used  to  pray 
over  and  over  again  the  same  thing:  "  It's  not  that  I'm 
jealous,  O  Lord.  O  purge  my  heart  of  jealousy.  It  is 
that  I  see  what  could  be  and  what  ought  to  be  for  me  and 
what  never  will  be  for  me.  I've  nothing  to  look  forward 
to,  nothing,  nothing,  nothing,  nothing.  It  is  hard  for 
women.  O  God,  thou  knowest  how  hard  it  is  for 
women." 

It  was  frightening. 

Then  came  the  second  Sunday  of  the  absence  in  Lon- 
don. In  the  night  of  Saturday  Rosalie  was  again  awak- 
ened by  the  sounds  of  Anna  and  again  heard  her  praying 
and  again  heard  "  It  is  hard  for  women.  O  God,  thou 
knowest  how  hard  it  is  for  women.'' 

She  had  heard  it  so  often!  Anna  seemed  to  have 
stopped  praying.  There  was  a  light  in  the  room  and 
Rosalie  saw  that  Anna,  on  her  knees,  had  her  head  and 


66  THIS  FREEDOM 

arms  thrown  forward  on  the  bed  more  as  if  she  were 
asleep  than  praying.  "It  is  hard  for  women."  Rosalie 
had  heard  Anna  say  that  so  often.  And  she  was  going 
to  be  a  woman  one  day.  And  she  had  always  known  that 
men  were  the  important  and  wonderful  people  of  the 
world.  Now  Anna  said  that  for  women  it  was  hard  and 
that  God  knew  it  was  hard.  Why?  She  peered  across 
again.  Anna  certainly  had  done  her  prayers.  She  said, 
"  Anna.     Anna.     Why  is  it  hard  for  women?  " 

Anna  started  to  her  knees  and  turned  her  body  round. 
"  Rosalie!  Why  are  you  awake?  You've  no  right  to  be 
awake." 

"  No,  but  I  am.  I  woke  up.  Anna,  why  is  it  hard  for 
women?  " 

"  You  weren't  meant  to  hear.  You  couldn't  under- 
stand." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  know,  Anna." 

Anna  got  up  and  came  across  to  Rosalie's  bed ;  and  by 
her  manner,  and  by  her  voice,  and  by  the  tall  white  figure 
she  was,  frightened  Rosalie.  She  said,  "  Go  to  sleep. 
You  can  sleep.  Why  don't  you  when  you  can  ?  One  day 
perhaps  you'll  be  like  me  and  can't." 

It  reminded  Rosalie  of  "  Sleep  on  now  and  take  your 
rest  "  in  the  Bible,  and  frightened  her.  Anna  said,  "  It's 
hard  for  women  because  men  can  do  what  they  like  but 
women  can't."  She  turned  away.  She  stood  still  and 
said  with  her  back  to  Rosalie,  "I've  got  a  longing  here." 
Her  hands  were  clasped  and  she  brought  them  up  and 
struck  them  against  her  breast  with  a  thud.  "  And  I  al- 
ways have  had  and  I  always  will  have.  Here.  Burning. 
Aching.  And  when  you've  got  a  longing  like  that  you 
must  —  you  must  —  "  Then  she  said  very  violently,  "  I 
hate  men.  I  hate  them.  I  hate  them."  Then  she  went 
very  quickly  to  the  candlestick  on  the  dressing  table  and 


THIS  FREEDOM  67 

fumbled  with  it  to  blow  it  out,  and  it  fell  on  the  ground 
and  broke  and  the  room  was  black. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Anna  said  she  would  not 
go  to  Church  as  she  had  a  headache.  Rosalie  had  been 
invited  to  spend  the  day  with  the  little  girl  of  Colonel 
and  Mrs.  Measures  and  she  had  lunch  and  tea  there  and 
then  came  home.  The  path  from  the  gate  to  the  house 
was  bounded  by  a  thick  hedge.  On  the  right  was  the 
rectory  paddock  and  through  the  hedge  Rosalie  saw  that 
something  very  strange  was  going  on  in  the  paddock. 
Away  in  the  corner  where  there  was  a  little  copse  with  a 
pond  in  the  middle  was  a  crowd  of  people,  some  men 
from  the  village  and  her  mother  and  Robert  and  some 
others.  Whatever  was  it?  While  she  peered  Harold 
came  running  out  of  the  group  towards  the  house.  His 
coat  was  off,  and  his  waistcoat;  and  his  shirt  and 
trousers  looked  funny  and  he  ran  funnily.  He  came 
near  Rosalie  and  she  saw  that  he  was  dripping  wet.  Had 
he  fallen  in  the  pond?  Then  two  men  came  round  from 
the  back  of  the  house  carrying  something,  and  Harold 
ran  to  them  and  they  all  ran  with  the  thing  to  the  pond. 
It  looked  like  the  door  of  the  shed  they  were  carrying. 
Rosalie  scrambled  through  the  hedge  and  ran  towards 
the  pond.  Some  one  called  out  "  Here's  Rosalie."  Hilda 
came  out  from  among  the  people  and  waved  her  arms 
and  called  out,  "  Go  back !  Go  back !  You're  not  to  come 
here,  Rosalie !  You're  not  to  come  here !  "  Rosalie  stood 
still. 

People  were  stooping.  They  had  the  door  on  the 
ground  and  Harold  and  a  man  were  stooping  and  walk- 
ing backwards  over  the  door,  carrying  something.  Pres- 
ently there  was  more  stooping,  and  then  Harold  and 
Robert  and  three  men  w^ere  carrying  the  door  between 
them  and  walking  as  if  the  door  were  very  heavy.  What- 
ever was  happening?     Hilda  came  running  to  Rosalie. 


68  THIS  FREEDOM 

She  was  crying.  "  Rosalie,  you're  to  keep  away.  You're 
not  to  come  into  the  house  yet.  I'll  tell  you  when  you 
can  come.     Go  and  stay  in  the  garden  till  I  tell  you." 

Rosalie  wandered  about  by  the  drive.  Whatever  was 
the  matter?  Robert  appeared  with  his  bicycle.  Harold 
came  out  after  him.  "  Go  to  Ashborough  station  with  it, 
you  understand.  See  the  station  master.  Tell  him  it  must 
be  sent  off  at  once.  Tell  him  what  has  happened."  Robert 
was  sniffling  and  nodding.  Away  went  Robert,  bending 
over  the  handle  bar  of  his  bicycle,  riding  furiously. 

Evening  began  to  come  on.  Rosalie  was  wandering 
at  the  back  by  the  stables  when  Hilda  came  out  through 
the  kitchen  door.  "  Rosalie,  I've  been  looking  for  you. 
Rosalie,  Anna  is  —  dead." 

They  went  in  through  the  kitchen.     On  the  big  kitchen 
clothes  rail  before  the  fire  were  clothes  of  Anna's.     They 
were  muddy  and  sopping  wet  and  steam  was  rising  off 
them. 
'    Rosalie  ran  to  her  mother  to  cry. 

"  Ran  to  her  mother  to  cry."  That's  a  thing  not  to 
pass  over  without  a  stop.  Lucky,  lucky  Rosalie  to  have 
one  to  whom  to  take  her  grief!  You  can  imagine  her 
small  heart's  twistings  by  those  days  of  sorrow,  of  terri- 
fying and  mysterious  and  dreadful  things  that  the  child 
never  could  clearly  have  understood;  of  grief,  of  mourn- 
ing; of  atmosphere  most  eerie  made  of  whispers,  of  tip- 
toe treading,  of  shrouded  windows,  of  conversations,  as 
of  conspirators,  shut  oft'  with  "  Not  in  front  of  Rosalie." 
"  Hush,  not  now.     Here's  Rosalie." 

Yes,  twisting  stuff  that;  but  in  that  "  ran  to  her  mother 
to  cry "  something  that  much  more  dreadfully  twists 
the  heart  than  those.  Those  were  for  Rosalie  —  they 
are  for  all  —  but  frets  upon  the  sands  of  time  that  each 
most  kind  expunging  day,  flowing  from  dawn  to  sunset 


THIS  FREEDOM  69 

like  a  tide,  heals  and  obliterates.  There  are  no  common 
griefs,  and  death's  a  common  grief,  that  can  be  drawn 
above  that  tide's  highwater  mark.  But  there's  that  sen- 
tence :  "  Rosalie  ran  to  her  mother  to  cry."  That's 
of  the  aching  voids  of  life,  deep-seated  like  a  cancer,  that 
no  tide  reaches.  That  twists  the  heart  to  hear  it  be- 
cause—  O  happy  Rosalie!  —  the  aching  thing  in  life  is 
not  having  where  you  can  take  your  weariness.  Your 
successes,  your  triumphs,  there  are  a  hundred  eyes  to 
shine  with  yours  in  those.  Oh,  it  is  the  defeats  you 
want  where  to  tell  —  some  one  you  can  take  the  defeats 
to,  the  failures,  the  lost  things;  the  lamps  that  are  gone 
out,  the  hopes  that  are  ashes,  the  springs  that  spring  no 
more,  the  secret  sordid  things  that  eat  you  up,  that  hedge 
you  all  about,  that  draw  you  down.  Those!  To  have 
some  one  to  tell  those  to!  Yes,  there's  a  thought  that 
comes  with  living :  Let  who  may  receive  a  man's  tri- 
umphs; to  whom  a  soul  can  take  its  defeats,  that  one  has 
the  imprint  of  Godhood.     They  walk  near  God. 

Awfully  frightening  days  followed  for  Rosalie.  There 
wasn't  a  room  that  wasn't  dark  and  frightening  with  all 
the  blinds  down,  and  wasn't  a  voice  that  wasn't  dark  and 
frightening,  all  in  whispers;  and  then  came  this  that 
closed  them  and  that  was  like  a  finger  pressed  right  down 
on  Rosalie. 

There  was  that  Rosalie  in  the  church  at  the  funeral 
service.  She  sat  at  the  inner  end  of  the  pew  with  Hilda 
beside  her.  The  coffin  had  stood  before  the  altar  all 
night,  with  the  lamps  lit  all  night,  and  Rosalie  believed 
her  father  had  stayed  with  it  all  night.  He  was  struck 
right  down  by  what  had  happened,  Rosalie's  father.  She 
had  heard  him,  when  Anna  lay  on  the  bed,  and  he 
crouched  beside  her,  crying  out  loud,  "  I  hated  my  lot ! 
O  God,  I  was  blind  to  this  my  child  that  shared  my  lot !  " 


70  THIS  FREEDOM 

Well,  there  was  that  Rosalie  in  the  pew  beside  Hilda, 
and  while  she  waited  for  her  father  to  begin  (ever  and 
ever  so  long  he  was  upon  his  knees  at  the  altar,  his  back 
to  them)  while  she  waited  she  turned  back  the  leaves 
of  her  prayer  book  from  the  burial  service  and  noticed 
with  a  curious  interest  the  correctness  of  the  order  in 
which  the  special  services  came.  There,  in  its  order,  was 
the  complete  record  of  life.  Rosalie  must  have  had  an 
imagination  and  she  must  have  had  budding  then  what 
was  a  strong  characteristic  of  her  afterwards,  —  a  very 
orderly  mind.  She  appreciated  the  correctness  of  the 
order  of  the  services  and  she  turned  them  over  one  by 
one  and  could  imagine  it,  like  a  story :  that  record  of  a 
life.  First  the  service  of  Baptism;  you  were  born  and 
baptised.  Then  the  Catechism ;  you  were  a  child  and 
learnt  your  catechism.  Then  the  Order  of  Confirmation; 
you  were  getting  older  and  were  confirmed.  Then  the 
marriage  service;  you  were  married.  Then  the  Order 
for  the  Visitation  of  the  Sick;  you  were  growing  old 
and  you  were  ill.  Then  the  Burial  Service;  you  died. 
Born,  brought  up,  growing  up,  married,  ill,  dead.  Yes, 
it  was  like  a  story.  Rosalie  turned  on.  The  next  service 
was  called  The  Churchinjr  of  Women.  It  was  new  to 
Rosalie.  She  had  never  noticed  it  before.  "  Forasmuch 
as  it  hath  pleased  Almi^jhty  God  of  His  goodness  to  give 
you  safe  deliverance  ..."  Rosalie  had  heard  the  word 
deliverance  used  in  the  Bible  in  connection  with  death. 
She  thought  this  must  be  a  service  special  to  the  burial 
of  a  woman  —  of  Anna.  She  read  the  small  print.  "  The 
woman  at  the  usual  time  after  her  delivery  shall  come 
into  the  church  decently  apparelled.  ..."  Decently  ap- 
parelled? Anna  was  in  one  of  those  nightgowns  in  which 
Rosalie  so  often  had  seen  her  praying.  "...  and  there 
shall  kneel  down  in  some  convenient  place."  Kneel 
down?    How  fo«/c?  she?  .  .  . 


THIS  FREEDOM  71 

There  came  upon  the  book  while  Rosalie  pondered  if 
the  long,  black-gloved  forefinger  of  Hilda.  It  turned 
back  the  thin  leaves  to  the  burial  service  and  then  pushed 
over  one  or  two  of  the  thin  leaves  and  indicated  certain 
places.  Then  Hilda's  new  black  hat  was  touching  her 
own  new  black  hat,  and  Hilda  whispered,  "  Where  it  says 
'  brother  '  and  '  his  '  father  will  say  *  sister  '  and  '  her.' 
It's  written  for  men,  do  you  see?  " 

Always  for  men !     Even  in  the  prayer  book ! 

And  it  was  because  of  men  that  Anna  had  drov^ned 
herself  in  the  pond.  Over  and  over  again  Rosalie  had 
thought  of  that,  wondering  upon  it,  shuddering  at  the 
thought  of  men  because  of  it.  How  she  came  to  know 
that  Anna  had  not  died  as  ordinary  people  die,  but  had 
drowned  herself  in  the  pond  she  never  could  remember. 
No  one  told  her.  Rosalie  was  twelve  then  but  the  others 
were  all  so  much  older,  and  were  so  accustomed  to  treat- 
ing Rosalie  as  so  very  much  younger,  that  the  pain  and 
mystery  of  poor  Anna's  death  was  outstandingly  of  the 
class  of  things  that  were  kept  within  the  established  wheel 
of  the  rectory  by  "  Not  in  front  of  Rosalie,"  or  "  Hush, 
here's  Rosalie." 

The  effect  was  that  when  Rosalie  somehow  found  out, 
she  felt  it  to  be  a  guilty  knowledge.  She  was  not  sup- 
posed to  know  and  she  felt  she  ought  not  to  have  known. 
And  sharing,  but  secretly,  the  others'  knowledge  that 
Anna  had  drowned  herself  in  the  pond,  she  supposed 
that  they  equally  shared  with  her  her  knowledge  of  why 
poor  Anna  had  drowned  herself  in  the  pond  —  because 
of  men.  She  overheard  many  conversations  that  assured 
her  in  this  belief.  "  Some  man  we  knew  nothing  about," 
the  conversation  used  to  say.  "  What  else  could  it  have 
been?  Hush,  here's  Rosalie."  And  again,  after  they 
had  all  been  out  of  the  house  to  attend  what  was  called 
the  inquest,  "  You  heard  what  the  coroner  said  —  that 


72  THIS  FREEDOM 

there  was  almost  invariably  something  to  do  with  a  man 
in  these  cases.  Poor  Anna!  Poor  darling  Anna.  If 
she  had  only  told  us.  What  else  could  it  have  been? 
Harold,  hush!     Not  in  front  of  Rosalie!  " 

Of  course  it  was  nothing  else.  It  was  that.  It  was 
men.  Anna  had  said  so.  "  I  hate  men.  I  hate  them." 
Yes,  men  had  done  this  to  Anna. 

Her  mind  went  violently,  as  it  were  with  a  violent 
clutch  of  both  her  hands,  as  of  one  in  horrible  dark  clutch- 
ing at  means  of  light,  to  the  thought  that  next  week  she 
was  to  be  away  at  school  —  to  be  right  away  and  in  the 
safe  middle  of  lots  and  lots  of  girls,  and  only  girls.  She 
had  a  frightening,  a  shuddering,  at  the  thought  of  men 
who  caused  these  terrible  things  to  be  done,  who  mys- 
teriously and  horribly  somehow  had  done  this  thing  to 
Anna. 

The  long,  black  finger  poked  at  the  page  again. 
"  There.  '  This  our  brother.'  Father  will  say  '  This  our 
sister.'     Do  you  see,  Rosalie?     This  our  sister." 

A  shower  of  tears  sprang  out  of  Rosalie's  eyes  and 
pattered  upon  the  page. 

She  wiped  them.  She  set  her  teeth.  A  new  and  most 
awful  concern  possessed  her.  '  This  our  sister.'  Would 
father  remember?  When  he  came  to  brother  would  he 
remember  to  say  sister?  And  when  'his'  would  he 
remember  to  say  '  her  ?  '  She  searched  for  the  places.  A 
most  frightful  agitation  seized  her  that  father  would 
forget.     What  would  happen  if  he  forgot? 

And  at  the  very  first  place  father  did  forget! 

They  were  come  from  the  church  to  the  grave.  They 
were  grouped  about  that  most  terrible  and  frightening 
pit.  Rosalie  was  clutching  her  mother's  dear  hand,  and 
in  her  other  hand  held  her  prayer  book.     There  it  was, 


THIS  FREEDOM  IZ 

the  first  place  for  the  change.  Brokenly  her  father's 
voice  came  out  upon  the  air,  and  at  his  very  first  word  — 
the  fatal  word  —  Rosalie  caught  her  breath  in  sharp  and 
agonized  dismay. 

"  Mayi  that  is  born  of  woman  hath  but  a  short  time 
to  live  and  is  full  of  misery.  ..." 

She  called  out  —  she  could  not  help  it — "Father!" 

Her  mother's  hand,  squeezing  hers,  restrained  her. 

The  broken  voice  went  on  " .  .  .  cometh  up  and  is  cut 
down  like  a  flower." 

She  heaved  relief.  No  one  had  noticed  it.  It  was 
all  right.  No  one  else  had  heard  the  terrible  mistake. 
It  was  all  right.  But  it  was  very  wrong.  Above  all  other 
places  this  was  the  place  that  should  have  been  changed. 
Woman  .  .  .  that  is  full  of  misery.  Flow  could  it  ever 
be  Man?  Anna,  in  almost  her  last  words,  had  said  it. 
"  It  is  hard  for  women  "  ;  and  that  God  knew  it  was  hard 
for  them  —  "  O  God,  thou  knowest  how  hard  it  is  for 
women." 

In  the  next  week  she  went  away  to  school. 


PART  TWO 
HOUSE  OF  WOMEN 


CHAPTER  I 

What  anybody  can  have  nobody  wants;  but  what 
only  one  person  can  have  there's  a  queue  to  get. 

This  is  an  elementary  principle  of  the  frailty  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  knowledge  of  it,  and  experience  of  its 
mighty  truth,  used  to  cause,  during  the  three  holiday 
periods  of  the  year,  a  standing  advertisement  to  appear 
on  the  front  page  of  the  Adorning  Post. 

"  High-class  Ladies'  School  for  the  Daughters  of  Gen- 
tlemen of  the  Professions  has  UNEXPECTED  VA- 
CANCY for  ONE  ONLY  pupil  at  reduced  terms  — 
Mrs.  Impact,  Oakwood  House  School,  St.  John's  Wood, 
London. 

ONE  ONLY  pupil !    That  was  the  magic  touch. 

The  very  first  words  addressed  to  Rosalie  by  a  fellow 
boarder  at  Oakwood  House  were  from  a  short,  sharp- 
featured  girl  of  her  own  age,  which  then  was  twelve, 
who  said  to  her  sharply,  "  You're  a  One  Only.  I  can 
see  you  are.    Aren't  you  a  One  Only?  " 

"  Well,  Fm  by  myself,"  said  Rosalie,  not  understand- 
ing but  most  anxious  to  say  the  right  thing. 

"  Stupid,  you're  not,"  said  the  sharp  girl,  "  because 
Pm  with  you.  Did  your  mother  see  the  advertisement  in 
the  Morning  Post?    The  advertisement  of  this  school?  " 

It  happened  that  Rosalie  knew  her  mother  had  seen  it 
for  Aunt  Belle  had  shown  it  to  her  and  to  them  all.  "  One 
of  the  very  best  schools,"  Aunt  Belle  had  said.  "  You 
see,  it's  only  quite  by  chance  there  was  a  vacancy." 

"  Yes,  she  did,"  said  Rosalie. 

"  She's  the  cat's  grandmother,"   said  the  sharp  girl. 


78  THIS  FREEDOM 

"  Never  say  '  she  '  for  a  person's  name.  Well,  if  your 
mother  saw  the  advertisement  then  you  are  a  One  Only 
at  reduced  terms,  and  I  knew  you  were  directly  I  saw 
you.  Now,  tell  me.  Don't  blink  —  unless  of  course 
you're  an  idiot;  all  idiots  blink.  Tell  me.  Was  that 
dress  made  for  you  or  was  it  cut  down  ?  " 

"  It  was  my  cousin  Laetitia's,"  said  Rosalie. 

*'  Of  course  it  was,"  returned  the  sharp  girl  very  tri- 
umphantly. "  Every  One  Only's  clothes  are  cut  down 
for  her.  Poopers !  Do  you  know  what  a  pooper  is  ?  A 
pooper  is  half  a  poop  and  half  a  pauper.  Every  One 
Only's  a  pooper.  Well,  now  you  know  what  you  are. 
You  see  that  girl  over  there.    Do  you  know  what  she  is  ?  " 

Rosalie  said  she  did  not. 

"  She's  a  Red  Indian." 

"Is  she?"  said  Rosalie,  much  surprised,  for  the  girl 
did  not  look  in  the  least  like  a  Red  Indian. 

"  Ask  her,"  said  the  sharp  girl.  "  Do  you  know  what 
I  am?" 

Rosalie  shook  her  head. 

"  Answer,"  said  the  sharp  girl. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Rosalie. 

"  I'm  a  Sultan,"  said  the  sharp  girl.  "  All  the  nice 
girls  are  Sultans  and  the  school  belongs  to  them.  Do  I 
look  nice?  " 

"  Very,"  said  Rosalie,  though  she  did  not  think  so. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  know  I  was  a  Sultan  ?  The 
school  belongs  to  the  Sultans.  The  One  Onlys  and  the 
Red  Indians  are  interlopers,  especially  the  One  Onlys. 
Always  shudder  when  you  see  a  Sultan.     Shudder  now." 

Rosalie  wriggled  her  shoulders. 

"  Again,  poop." 

Rosalie  repeated  the  wriggle. 

"  Vanish,  poop,"  said  the  sharp  girl,  and  herself  sprung 
away  with  mysterious  crouching  bounds,  her  head  thrust 


THIS  FREEDOM  79 

forward,  looking  very  like  Gagool,  the  witch,  in  King 
Solomon's  Mines;  and  was  seen  by  Rosalie  to  pounce 
upon  another  small  girl  who  was  probably  a  One  Only 
and,  from  her  forlorn  aspect,  certainly  a  sad  and  deso- 
lated new. 

One  Onlys,  Red  Indians,  Sultans.  They  were  the  three 
castes  into  which  the  girls  divided  themselves :  One  Onlys 
the  poopers  brought  by  the  advertisement;  Red  Indians 
the  daughters  of  parents  resident  in  India;  Sultans  the 
proud  creatures  who  paid  full  fees  and  took  their  title 
from  the  nickname  of  the  headmistress — the  Sultana. 
This  Oakwood  House  School  in  which  Rosalie  new  found 
herself  was  one  of  those  very  big  old  houses  with  a  spa- 
cious, walled-in  garden  that  probably  was  occupied  in  the 
Fifties  somewhere,  when  St.  John's  Wood  was  out  in 
the  country,  by  a  wealthy  old  City  merchant  who  rode 
in  to  business  two  or  three  times  a  week,  never  dreaming 
that  one  day  London  was  going  to  stretch  miles  beyond 
St.  John's  Wood,  and  his  imposing  residence  go  dropping 
down  the  scale  of  fashion  eventually  to  become  a 
school  for  young  ladies  who  on  their  crocodile  walks 
would  huddle,  giggling,  along  the  kerbstone  while 
the  dangerous  traffic  roared  up  and  down  the  Maida  Vale 
highway. 

Those  crocodiles!  There  was  a  news  agent's  shop 
just  opposite  where  the  crocodile  used  to  cross  when  it 
went  out  every  morning,  and  one  of  the  great  excitements 
of  the  walk  was  to  get  around  the  corner  and  see  what 
the  newspaper  bills  had  to  tell.  There  were  about  forty 
girls  at  the  school  —  a  crocodile  twenty  files  long  —  and 
on  the  days  of  sensational  events  the  news  from  the  pla- 
cards used  to  come  flashing  back  in  emotional  little 
screams  from  the  head  of  the  crocodile,  gazing  with  gog- 
gling eyes,  to  the  tail  of  the  crocodile  pressing  deliriously 
up  behind.     "  The  Maybrick  Case  " ;  "  Jack  the  Ripper 


80  THIS  FREEDOM 

Again";  "Death  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence";  "Loss  of 
H.M.S.  Victoria";  Rosalie  never  afterwards  could  hear 
those  terrific  things  referred  to  without  recalling  instantly 
the  convulsions  of  the  crocodile  and  experiencing  within 
her  own  bosom  the  tumults  that  contributed  their  share 
to  the  convulsions.  She  was  in  the  writhing  tail  of  the 
crocodile  when  "  Jack  the  Ripper  Again  "  caused  it  almost 
to  swoon,  and  she  was  in  its  weeping  head  when  "  Death 
of  the  Duke  of  Clarence"  and  "Loss  of  H.M.S.  Vic- 
toria "  struck  its  orderly  coils  into  a  tangled  and  hysterical 
knot. 

Mrs.  Impact,  who  kept  this  school,  was  a  massive  and 
frightening  figure  of  doom  who  wore  always  upon  her 
head,  and  was  suspected  of  sleeping  in,  a  strange  erec- 
tion having  the  appearance  of  a  straw  beehive.  She  was 
called  the  Sultana  and  her  appearance  and  her  habits 
seemed  to  Rosalie  precisely  the  appearance  and  habits 
that  would  belong  to  a  sultana.  The  Sultana  appeared 
virtually  never  among  the  girls.  The  direction  of  the 
discipline  and  education  of  the  pupils  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  chief  of  the  Sultana's  staff  of  badly  paid  and  much 
intimidated  mistresses.  This  chief  of  staff,  by  name  Miss 
Ough,  but  called  the  Vizier,  appeared  from  and  disap- 
peared into  the  quarters  occupied  by  the  Sultana,  and  was 
popularly  supposed  to  be  kept  there  in  a  dungeon.  If 
you  were  near  the  door  through  which  the  Vizier  passed 
from  public  gaze  there  was  unquestionably  to  be  heard 
shortly  afterwards  a  metallic  clank.  This  was  the  portal 
of  the  Vizier's  dungeon  being  closed  upon  her  and  was 
very  shuddering  to  hear.  The  Vizier,  moreover,  like 
one  long  incarcerated,  was  skeletonized  of  form,  cadaver- 
ous and  sallow  of  countenance,  and  grew  upon  her  face, 
as  all  right  prisoners  in  royal  custody  grow,  a  thick  cov- 
ering of  greyish  down. 

A  second  known  inhabitant  of  the  Sultana's  quarters 


THIS  FREEDOM  81 

was  Mr.  Ponders,  her  butler,  who  sometimes  sHd  into 
the  classrooms  in  a  very  eerie  way  with  messages  and 
whom  Rosalie  came  to  know  strangely  well ;  a  third,  but 
he  did  not  exactly  live  in  the  awful  regions,  was  the  Sul- 
tana's husband.  The  Sultana's  husband  lived  in  two 
rooms  over  the  stable.  From  the  front  classroom  win- 
dows he  was  to  be  seen  every  morning  disappearing 
through  the  front  gates  at  about  eleven  o'clock;  very 
shiny  top  hat;  very  tight  tail  coat;  very  tight  grey  trous- 
ers; very  tight  yellow  gloves;  very  tight  grey-yellow 
moustache;  very  tight  pasty  face;  curiously  constricted, 
jerky  gait  as  though  his  boots,  too,  were  very  tight.  Pre- 
cisely the  sort  of  chronic,  half -tipsy  hanger-on  one  used 
to  see  in  billiard  rooms  or  eating  cloves  in  West  End 
bars.  By  association  of  ideas  with  the  orientalism  of 
Sultana  he  was  called  by  the  girls  the  Bashibazook. 

Junior  to  Miss  Ough,  the  vizier,  were  four  or  five 
other  mistresses,  all  known  by  nicknames.  Children  are 
exactly  like  savages  in  their  horrible  sharpness  at  pick- 
ing out  physical  peculiarities  and  labelling  by  them.  One 
would  imagine  these  governesses,  judged  by  their  nick- 
names, a  deplorable  collection  of  oddities.  Actually  they 
must  have  been  a  presentable  enough  and  a  capable  enough 
set  of  spinsters,  though  sicklied  o'er  by  the  pale  cast 
of  indifife.rent  personalities,  —  indifferently  housed,  in- 
differently fed,  indifferently  paid;  all  anaemic,  all  with- 
out any  prospects  whatsoever,  all  dominated  by  and 
domineered  over  by  the  masterful  personality  of  the  Sul- 
tana. 

Only  one  of  them  contributed  to  the  life  of  Rosalie  and 
this  was  "  Keggo,"  Miss  Keggs,  who  taught  mathematics. 
This  Keggo  was  rather  like  Anna  in  appearance,  Rosalie 
thought,  and  was  most  popular  of  all  the  mistresses  with 
the  girls,  partly  because  of  her  bright  moments  in  which 
she  was  a  human  creature  and  an  entertaining  creature; 


82  THIS  FREEDOM 

partly  because  of  her  curiously  supine  periods  in  which 
she  would  be  utterly  listless,  allow  her  class  to  do  any- 
thing they  liked  provided  they  kept  perfectly  quiet,  and 
would  make  no  attempt  whatsoever  to  correct  idleness 
or  to  impart  the  lesson  of  the  hour.  Miss  Keggs  had 
been  known  to  knock  over  the  inkpot  on  her  desk  and 
sit  and  watch  the  ink  dripping  in  a  pool  on  to  the  floor 
without  making  the  least  attempt  even  to  upstand  the. 
vessel.  No  one  knew  why  Keggo  had  these  moods.  But 
it  was  known  that  for  her  to  come  into  class  looking 
rather  flushed  was  a  sign  foreshadowing  them. 

She  appeared  to  take  a  fancy  to  Rosalie  from  the  first, 
and  Rosalie  to  her,  probably  by  reason  of  the  fancied  re- 
semblance to  Anna.  She  invited  Rosalie  to  her  room 
and  Rosalie  loved  to  go  there  because  the  One  Onlys 
were  in  a  very  weak  and  humble  minority  in  Rosalie's 
first  term  and  were  rather  hunted  by  the  Sultans  who 
were  then  particularly  strong  in  numbers  and  rich  in  ap- 
parel, in  pocket  money  and  in  friends.  The  poor  little 
One  Onlys  led  rather  abashed  lives  and  they  had  no 
chance  at  all  around  the  playroom  fire  where  the  Sul- 
tans stretched  their  elegant  legs  and  warmed  their  shapely 
toes. 

One  evening  in  her  first  few  weeks  Rosalie  had  to  take 
an  exercise  up  to  Miss  Keggs,  and  Miss  Keggs's  room 
was  warm,  and  Miss  Keggs  like  Anna,  and  Rosalie  lin- 
gered and  was  invited  to  linger ;  after  that  Rosalie  sought 
and  invented  reasons  for  going  up  to  Miss  Keggs's  room 
and  Miss  Keggs  would  nearly  always  say,  "  Well,  you 
may  stay  a  little,  Rosalie,  as  you're  here." 

Miss  Keggs's  room  was  right  at  the  top  of  the  house 
where  were  also  the  servants'  room  and  the  room  shared 
by  Miss  Downer  and  Miss  Frost.  It  was  a  long,  nar- 
row room  with  sloping  ceiling  and  the  window  high  up 
in  the  ceiling.     In  the  winter  it  was  warmed  with  a  small 


THIS  FREEDOM  83 

oil  stove  which  smeh  terribly  when  you  first  went  in  but 
to  the  smell  of  which  you  almost  at  once  got  accustomed. 
It  was  curious  to  Rosalie  that  even  in  summer  when  there 
was  no  oil  stove  there  was  nearly  always  a  very  strong 
smell  in  Miss  Keggs's  room.  Miss  Keggs  used  eau  de 
Cologne  for  bathing  her  forehead  and  temples  on  ac- 
count of  the  very  bad  headaches  from  which  she  said  she 
suffered  and  the  smell  was  like  eau  de  Cologne  but  with 
an  unpleasantly  harsh  strong  tang  in  it,  like  bad  eau  de 
Cologne,  Rosalie  used  to  think.  However,  you  almost 
at  once  got  accustomed  to  that  also.  These  headaches 
of  Miss  Keggs  were  a  symptom  of  the  very  bad  health 
from  which  she  suffered,  and  on  the  occasions  of  Rosa- 
lie's visits  to  her  room  Miss  Keggs  was  very  communica- 
tive about  her  ill  health.  It  was  the  reason,  she  told 
Rosalie,  why,  alone  of  all  the  mistresses,  she  had  a  room 
to  herself  instead  of  sharing  one.  The  Sultana  had 
granted  her  that  privilege,  provided  she  would  use  this 
remote  and  rather  poky  attic,  because  it  was  so  essential 
she  should  be  quiet  and  undisturbed. 

"Don't  you  have  any  medicine.  Miss  Keggs?"  said 
the  small  Rosalie,  in  one  part  genuinely  sympathetic  and 
in  the  other  eager  to  discuss  anything  that  would  pro- 
long her  stay  by  the  warm  oil  stove. 

"  Nothing  does  me  any  good,"  said  Miss  Keggs 
wearily.  After  a  minute  she  added,  "  But  I  really  am 
feeling  very  bad  to-night.  Mr.  Ponders  very  kindly 
gives  me  some  medicine  that  relieves  my  bad  attacks.  I 
wonder,  Rosalie,  if  you  could  find  your  way  down  to  Mr. 
Ponders  and  give  him  this  medicine  bottle  and  ask  him 
if  he  could  very  kindly  oblige  me  with  a  little  of  my  medi- 
cine?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  could.  Miss  Keggs,"  cried  Rosalie, 
delighted  at  the  opportunity  of  doing  a  service. 

Miss  Keggs  became  extraordinarily  animated  with  the 


84  THIS  FREEDOM 

feverish  animation  of  one  who,  having-  made  up  her 
mind  after  hesitation,  furiously  tramples  hesitation  un- 
der foot. 

"  Go  right  downstairs,"  directed  Miss  Keggs,  "  right 
down  below  the  hall  into  the  basement.  You  know  the 
basement  stairs?"  She  proceeded  with  her  directions, 
detailing  them  most  exactly.  She  accompanied  Rosalie 
to  the  door  and  when  Rosalie  was  a  little  down  the  pas- 
sage sharply  called  her  back.  "And,  Rosalie!  If  you 
should  meet  any  one  —  if  you  should  meet  any  one,  on 
no  account  say  where  you  are  going  or  where  you  have 
been.  On  no  account.  If  it  should  be  known  how  ill  1 
continue  to  be,  I  might  be  sent  away.  They  might  think 
I  am  not  strong  enough  to  continue  my  work  here.  Say 
you  have  lost  your  way  if  you  should  be  met.  You  are 
a  new  little  girl  and  it  is  easy  to  lose  your  way  in  this  big, 
rambling  house.  Keep  the  bottle  in  your  pocket  and  re- 
member, Rosalie,  on  no  account  to  tell.  On  no  account." 
And  so  dismissed  her. 

A  creepy  business,  going  down  to  interview  Mr.  Pon- 
ders !  The  Sultana's  butler  was  only  seen  by  the  girls  on 
momentous  and  thrilling  occasions.  He  opened  the  hall 
door  when  new  little  girls  arrived  with  their  mothers, 
and  he  would  sometimes  appear  in  a  classroom  and  walk 
thrillingly  to  the  mistress  and  thrillingly  whisper.  This 
always  meant  that  for  some  fortunate  girl  a  parent  or 
an  aunt  had  arrived  and  that  the  presence  of  the  fortunate 
girl  was  desired  by  the  Sultana.  He  was  a  shortish, 
dingy  man  with  a  considerable  moustache.  As  he  walked 
between  the  desks  to  deliver  his  message,  his  eyes  were 
always  glancing  from  side  to  side  as  though  furtively  in 
search  of  something,  and  always  as  he  left  the  room  he 
would  stand  a  moment  with  his  hand  on  the  door  as 
though  meditating  some  statement  and  then  suddenly  de- 


THIS  FREEDOM  85 

termining  to  disappear  without  making  it.  A  rather 
mysterious  and  thrilHng  man. 

Come  into  the  basement,  Rosalie  walked  as  bid  along 
the  passage,  then  to  the  right  and  then  past  two  doors 
to  the  third,  whereon  she  tapped  gently,  and  when  a  man's 
voice  said  "  Come  in,"  quaked  rather,  and  went  in.  The 
walls  of  Mr.  Ponders'  room  were  completely  surrounded 
by  narrow  shelves.  Beneath  the  shelves  were  the  closed 
doors  of  low  cupboards  and  on  the  shelves  were  ranged 
many  glasses,  china  and  silverware.  At  one  end  beneath 
the  window  was  a  sink  with  two  taps,  both  dripping. 
On  the  right-hand  side  was  a  fire  before  which  in  a 
wicker  armchair  sat  Mr.  Ponders  smoking  a  pipe  and 
reading  a  newspaper. 

"  What  do  yoii  want?  "  inquired  Mr.  Ponders. 

Rosalie  said,  "If  you  please,  Mr.  Ponders,  Miss  Keggs 
is  not  feeling  at  all  well  and  would  you  be  so  very  kind 
as  to  give  her  some  of  her  medicine,  please?  " 

Mr.  Ponders  rose  and  regarded  Rosalie  from  the 
hearthrug.  "  So  it's  going  to  be  you  coming  for  the 
medicine  now,  is  it?  "  he  said.  He  looked  rather  a  mean 
little  man,  standing  there ;  not  thrilling  as  when  he  ap- 
peared in  the  schoolrooms  for  there  was  an  unpleasing 
familiarity  in  his  air,  but  still  decidedly  mysterious,  for 
though  he  smiled  and  looked  snakily  at  Rosalie,  he  still 
glanced  from  side  to  side  as  though  furtively  looking 
for  something  and  he  still,  before  committing  himself 
to  an  action,  paused  as  though  meditating  a  statement  and 
then  suddenly  performed  the  action  as  though  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  speak  —  yet. 

"  You're  Rosalie,  aren't  you?  "  inquired  Ponders,  put- 
ting his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  stretching  out  his  stom- 
ach like  one  much  at  his  ease.  "  Rosalie  Aubyn.  You 
come  with  your  Auntie.     What's  your  Pa?  " 

"  A  clergyman,  Mr.  Ponders." 


86  THIS  FREEDOM 

"Oh,  he's  a  clergyman,  is  he?"  Mr.  Ponders's  eyes 
slid  from  side  to  side,  rather  as  if  he  had  somewhere  in 
the  room  some  confirmation  or  some  refutation  of  Rosa- 
lie's statement  that  he  could  produce  if  he  could  catch 
sight  of  it,  and  'continued  thus  to  slide  with  the  same 
suggestion  while  he  playfully  put  Rosalie  through  a  fur- 
ther examination  relative  to  her  "  Auntie,''  her  "  Ma  " 
and  her  brothers  and  sisters.  He  appeared  then  to  be 
meditating  a  question  of  some  other  order  but  instead 
suddenly  straightened  himself,  withdrew  his  hands  from 
his  pockets  and  said,  "  Well,  you'd  better  be  running 
along  with  the  medicine." 

He  took  from  Rosalie  the  bottle  Miss  Keggs  had  given 
her  and  from  his  pockets  a  bunch  of  keys.  In  the  lock 
of  one  of  his  cupboards  he  fitted  a  key,  paused  a  medita- 
tive moment,  then  with  a  decisive  action  opened  the  cup- 
board and  from  a  tall  black  bottle  very  carefully  and 
steadily  filled  the  medicine  bottle.  The  medicine  was 
dark  red.  It  first  ran  in  a  fine  dark  red  cloud  around  the 
inner  shoulders  and  sides  of  the  bottle  and  then  plunged 
in  a  steady  stream  direct  from  the  larger  receptacle  to 
the  smaller. 

Rosalie,  watching,  was  moved  to  say,  "  How  well  you 
pour  it,  Mr.  Ponders." 

"  I've  poured  a  tidy  drop  in  my  time,"  said  Mr.  Pon- 
ders, completing  the  operation  and  corking  the  medicine 
bottle.  He  held  it  towards  Rosalie,  paused  in  his  mys- 
teriously deliberative  way,  and  then  suddenly  handed  it 
to  her.  "  And  a  tidy  fair  drop  for  Miss  Keggs  at  that," 
he  added.  He  went  to  the  door,  again  paused  as  though 
uncertain  whether  to  open  it,  then  opened  it  for  Rosalie  to 
pass  out.     "  Good  night,"  said  Mr.  Ponders. 

Lucky  Mr.  Ponders  to  have  for  his  own  a  cosy  room 
like  that  —  men,  always  for  some  reason,  with  the  best 
of  everything  again  !     Unpleasing  Mr.  Ponders  to  look 


THIS  FREEDOM  87 

at  you  like  that  and  to  speak  to  you  like  that  —  men, 
always  horrible  again!  Rosalie,  thus  thinking,  made  a 
swift  and  unobserved  climb  to  the  attics.  Miss  Keggs 
must  have  heard  her  coming.  The  door  was  pulled 
sharply  from  Rosalie's  hand  and  there  was  Miss  Keggs 
and  the  bottle  almost  snatched  away  from  Rosalie. 
"  How  long  you've  been !  But  you've  got  it !  And  no 
one  saw  you?"  Miss  Keggs  went  very  swiftly  to  the 
washstand  and  took  up  a  small  tumbler.  Clear  that  she 
wanted  her  medicine  very  badly.  She  toppled  in  the  con- 
tents of  the  bottle,  its  neck  clinking  against  the  glass,  the 
dark  red  medicine  splashing  and  some  spilling,  so  differ- 
ently from  Mr.  Ponders's  performance  of  a  far  more 
difficult  operation,  and  with  the  bottle  still  in  her  hand 
held  the  glass  to  her  lips  and  drank  deeply. 

Yet  there  was  a  funny  thing  about  the  draught.  It 
seemed  to  Rosalie  that  Miss  Keggs  with  that  eager 
draught  yet  did  not  swallow  at  once  but  only  filled  her 
mouth  to  its  capacity.  She  then  swallowed  very  slowly 
and  with  movements  of  her  cheeks  as  though  she  was 
sucking  down  the  medicine  and  tasting  it  in  every  por- 
tion of  her  mouth.  Colour  came  into  her  cheeks.  The 
medicine  certainly  appeared  to  do  her  immense  good. 

Miss  Keggs's  friendliness  towards  Rosalie  was  settled 
and  established  from  that  night.  Thereafter  it  became 
a  very  regular  thing  for  Rosalie  to  visit  the  room  of  Miss 
Keggs  of  an  evening;  and  at  intervals,  sometimes  twice 
a  week,  sometimes  not  three  times  in  a  month,  to  descend 
to  the  den  of  Mr.  Ponders  for  the  dark-red  medicine 
which  did  Miss  Keggs  so  much  good  and  which  she  al- 
ways took  in  that  peculiar  sucking  way  from  a  full  mouth. 
She  would  be  so  long  sometimes  in  swallowing  a  mouth- 
ful, beginning  a  sentence  and  then  drinking  and  then 
all  that  time  in  swallowing  before  she  completed  the  sen- 
tence, that  she  several  times,  by  way  of  apology,   ex- 


88  THIS  FREEDOM 

plained  the  reason  to  Rosalie.  "  I  have  to  swallow  it 
very  slowly  like  that,"  explained  Miss  Keggs,  "  because 
that's  the  way  for  it  to  do  me  good.  It's  my  doctor's 
orders." 

"  It  seems  a  business,"  was  Rosalie's  comment. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  business,"  Miss  Keggs  agreed. 

Rosalie  added,  "  How  very  lucky  it  is,  Miss  Keggs, 
that  Mr.  Ponders  keeps  your  medicine." 

"  Yes,  it's  certainly  very  lucky,"  Miss  Keggs  agreed. 

The  effect  of  her  medicine  was  always  to  make  her 
very  complaisant. 


CHAPTER  II 

One  seeks  to  give  only  the  things  in  RosaHe's  Hfe  that 
contributed  to  her  record,  as  time  judges  a  record.  Of 
her  years  at  Oakwood  House,  so  far  as  Oakwood  House 
itself  is  concerned,  only  that  friendship  with  Miss  Keggs 
thus  contributed.  The  rest  does  not  matter  and  may 
be  passed.  Rosalie  was  happy  there.  It  naturally  was 
all  very  strange  at  first  but  she  soon  shook  down  and 
found  her  place  and  formed  friendships.  The  thing  to 
notice  is  this  —  that  even  in  the  strangeness  of  her  first 
few  weeks  the  place  was  actively  felt  by  her  to  be  a 
haven.  There  is  to  be  recalled  that  aching  desire  of  hers, 
when  poor  Anna  lay  dead,  to  get  right  away  from  men : 
men  who  (though  still  pre-eminently  wonderful)  caused 
her  by  their  showing  off  to  blink  and  have  a 
funny  feeling;  and  by  their  distasteful  presence  spoilt 
her  walks  and  her  lessons ;  and  by  the  frightening  things 
they  did  had  brought  that  frightening  death  to  Anna. 
Thus  had  accumulated  that  aching  desire  to  get  right 
away  from  men  and  be  only  amongst  girls ;  and  the  feel- 
ing remained  most  lively  in  Rosalie  at  the  Sultana's,  and 
intensified.  Those  men!  She  used  to  see  the  Bashiba- 
zook  and  shudder  at  him ;  and  Mr.  Ponders  and  shudder 
at  him ;  and  sometimes  Uncle  Pyke,  and  because  of  ways 
he  had,  feel  quite  sick  to  be  near  him.  Men  still  were 
wonderful.  The  Bashibazook,  Mr.  Ponders,  Uncle  Pyke, 
Uncle  Pyke's  friends  —  all  were  infinitely  superior  and  did 
what  they  pleased;  but,  oh,  not  nice,  frightening.  It  zvas 
safe  and  nice  to  be  only  with  girls.  Girls  were  in  heaps 
of  ways  extraordinarily  silly  and  unsatisfactory      Men, 


90  THIS  FREEDOM 

though  not  nice,  unquestionably  did  everything  better 
and  could  do  things.  Unquestionably  theirs  was  the  best 
time  in  life.  Unquestionably  they  were  to  be  envied. 
But  —  not  nice,  frightening. 

It  was  like  that  that  her  ideas  at  Oakwood  House  were 
shaping. 

And  all  this  time,  most  important  and  much  contribu- 
tory to  the  life  of  Rosalie  —  Aunt  Belle.  Tremendous 
occasions  in  those  years  were  the  visits  to  the  Sultana's 
of  Aunt  Belle.  Frequently  on  a  Saturday  kind  Aunt 
Belle  used  to  call  at  Oakwood  House  for  Rosalie  and 
take  her  to  a  tea  shop  for  tea.  Beautiful  cousin  Laetitia 
would  accompany  her,  and  kind  Aunt  Belle  would  al- 
ways invite  Rosalie  to  bring  with  her  another  little  One 
Only.  Kind,  kind  Aunt  Belle!  Aunt  Belle  used  to  sit 
by  in  the  tea  shop,  affectionate  and  loquacious  as  ever, 
while  the  two  schoolgirls  stuffed  themselves  with  cakes 
(not  beautiful  Laetitia  who  just  nicely  sipped  a  cup  of 
tea  and  nicely  smiled  at  the  two  gross  appetites)  and 
always  kind  Aunt  Belle  brought  a  small  hamper  of  sweets 
and  cake  and  apples  —  "  The  very  best  goodies  from  the 
Army  and  Navy  Stores,  dear  child.  They  know  us  so 
well  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores.  Your  Uncle  Fyke 
has  a  standing  deposit  account  there.  We  can  go  in  with- 
out a  penny  in  our  pockets  and  buy  anything  we  please. 
Fancy  that,  dear  child!  "  And  always  half  a  crown  for 
Rosalie,  as  kind  Aunt  Belle  was  leaving. 

Once  in  every  term,  also,  Rosalie  spent  a  week-end  at 
the  magnificent  house  in  Pilchester  Square.  Such  lux- 
uries !  Fire  in  her  bedroom  and  palatial  late  dinner ! 
Breakfast  in  bed  on  Sunday  morning  ("Just  to  let  you 
lie  as  a  little  change  from  school,  dear  child.")  and 
Laetitia's  maid  to  do  her  hair!     Rosalie  immensely  im- 


THIS  FREEDOM  91 

pressed  and  Aunt  Belle  immensely  gratified  at  Rosalie's 
awe  and  appreciation  and  gratitude. 

A  curious  manifestation  there  was  of  Aunt  Belle's  atti- 
tude in  this  regard.  On  that  famous  visit  to  the  rectory 
she  had  treated  every  one  like  children.  Here,  in  her 
own  house,  while  Rosalie  was  still  a  child,  twelve,  thir- 
teen and  fourteen,  she  was  treated  by  Aunt  Belle  and 
shown  off  to  by  her  much  as  if  she  were  a  grown-up 
woman.  About  her  servants,  and  about  prices,  and  about 
dress,  and  about  her  dinner  parties,  Aunt  Belle  chat- 
tered to  Rosalie;  and  about  Uncle  Pyke,  what  he  liked, 
and  what  he  didn't  like,  and  what  he  did  in  the  City,  and 
what  he  did  at  his  club,  and  about  her  hosts  of  friends  and 
their  matrimonial  experiences,  Aunt  Belle  chattered  to 
her,  confiding  in  her  and  telling  her  all  kinds  of  things 
she  but  dimly  understood  precisely  as  if  she  were  a 
grown-up  young  woman. 

Then  as  Rosalie  grew  older,  sixteen,  seventeen  and 
getting  on  for  eighteen,  was  reversion  by  Aunt  Belle  to 
the  rectory  manner.  The  child  had  been  treated  as  a 
young  woman ;  the  budding  maiden  was  treated  pre- 
cisely as  if  she  were  a  small  child  or  a  small  savage  to 
be  entertained  by  mere  sight  of  the  wonders  all  about 
her  in  Pilchester  Square  and  by  having  them  explained 
to  her  in  words  of  one  syllable. 

"There,  Rosalie,"  (Rosalie  at  seventeen)  "do  you 
know  you're  eating  with  a  solid  silver  spoon !  Feel  the 
weight  of  it!  Balance  it  in  your  hand,  dear  child.  We 
usually  only  use  this  service  for  our  dinner  parties  and 
your  uncle  Pyke  keeps  it  locked  up  and  carries  the  key 
about  with  him.  Show  Rosalie  the  key,  Pyke.  But  I 
got  it  out  for  you  to-day  because  I  knew  you  would  like 
to  see  real  solid  silver  plate.    Dear  child !  " 

Dear  thing !  Lightly  on  her,  you  Brompton  Cemetery 
stones ! 


92  THIS  FREEDOM 

Uncle  Pyke  never  would  produce  the  key  or  whatever 
he  might  be  asked  to  show.  Uncle  Pyke  would  grunt 
and  go  on  with  his  soup  with  enormous  noise  as  though 
having  a  bath  in  it.  Uncle  Pyke  never  spoke  at  all  to 
Rosalie  on  these  week-end  visits  except,  always,  to  put 
her  through  examination  on  what  she  was  learning  at 
school.  Rosalie,  though  horribly  frightened  of  Uncle 
Pyke,  always  had  pretty  ready  answers  to  the  examina- 
tion —  she  did  uncommonly  well  at  school  —  but  there 
never  was  from  Uncle  Pyke  any  other  mark  of  apprecia- 
tion than  a  grunt.  A  grunt!  Those  Pyke-ish,  piggish 
men !  The  outstanding  characteristic  Rosalie  came  to  see 
in  Uncle  Pyke  and  in  the  other  husbands  (his  cronies) 
of  Aunt  Belle's  friends  was  that  they  thought  about  noth- 
ing else  but  their  food,  their  wine  and  their  cigars.  They 
disliked  having  about  them  anybody  who  interfered  with 
their  enjoyment  of  their  food,  their  wine  and  their  cigars. 
They  were  affectionately  regarded  by  their  wives  as  tame, 
necessary  bears  to  be  fed  and  warmed  and  used  to  sit  at 
the  head  of  the  table  and  awe  the  servants.  That  was 
what  Rosalie  saw  in  them  —  and  shuddered  at  in  them. 
Hogs! 

Cousin  Laetitia  all  this  time  was  living  at  home,  at- 
tending a  very  exclusive  and  expensive  day  school.  Only 
twelve  girls  at  beautiful  Laetitia's  school  and  more  mas- 
ters and  mistresses  than  pupils  —  mostly  "  visiting  " 
masters  —  Italian,  French,  painting,  singing,  music, 
dancing.  Laetitia  was  about  two  years  older  than  Rosa- 
lie. Very  pretty  in  an  elegant,  delicate  fashion,  and 
growing  up  decidedly  beautiful  in  a  sheltered,  hothouse, 
Rossetti  type  of  beauty.  Always  very  affectionate  to 
Rosalie  and  glad  to  see  her;  not  patronising  in  the  way 
she  might  have  been  patronising  and  yet,  as  the  two  grew 
older,  patronising  in  a  conscious  effort  to  dissemble  a 
conscious  superiority. 


THIS  FREEDOM  93 

Rosalie  never  could  remember  how  early  in  their  ac- 
quaintance it  was  she  first  understood  that  the  great  aim 
of  Laetitia's  life,  and  the  great  aim  of  Aunt  Belle's  life 
for  Laetitia,  was  to  "  make  a  good  match  " ;  but  she 
seemed  to  have  known  it  ever  since  she  first  heard  of 
Laetitia,  certainly  at  a  point  of  her  childhood  when  too 
young  exactly  to  understand  what  "  good  match  "  meant. 
Later  on,  when  Laetitia  had  left  school  and  was  within 
sight  of  putting  up  her  hair,  "  good  match  "  was  openly 
spoken  of  by  Aunt  Belle  in  her  crowded  drawing-room 
or  alone  in  company  of  the  two  girls  and  Uncle  Pyke. 

"  And  soon  dear  Laetitia  will  be  making  a  good  match, 
a  splendid  match  " ;  and  beautiful  Laetitia  would  faintly 
colour  and  faintly  smile. 

There  began  to  come  to  Rosalie,  growing  older,  an  acute 
and  an  odd  feeling  of  the  physical  and  mental  difference 
between  herself  and  beautiful  Laetitia  —  a  feeling  in 
Laetitia's  company  that  she  was  a  boy,  a  young  man,  in 
the  company  of  one  most  pronouncedly  a  young  woman. 
Rosalie  was  always  very  plainly  dressed  by  compari- 
son with  Laetitia ;  her  voice  was  much  clearer  and  sharper, 
her  air  very  vigorous  against  an  air  very  langorous.  Her 
hands  used  to  feel  extraordinarily  big  when  she  sat  with 
Laetitia  and  her  wrists  extraordinarily  bare.  She  would 
glance  down  at  her  lap  sometimes  and  could  have  felt  a 
sense  of  surprise  not  to  see  trousers  on  her  legs. 

That  was  how,  as  they  grew  older,  Rosalie  often  felt 
with  Laetitia. 

Her  last  term  came.  She  was  nearly  eighteen.  She 
was  going  to  earn  her  own  living.  That  was  decided. 
Exactly  how  was  not  decided ;  but  Rosalie  had  decided  it. 
There  was  an  idea  that  she  should  remain  at  the  Sul- 
tana's as  a  junior  teacher,  but  that  was  not  Rosalie's  idea. 
"  Oh,   don't  be  a  schoolmistress,   Rosalie,"   Keggo  had 


94  THIS  FREEDOM 

said  when  Rosalie  told  of  the  suggestion  (propounded, 
through  the  Sultana,  by  Miss  Ough  and  warmly  endorsed 
by  Aunt  Belle  and  grunted  upon  by  Uncle  Pyke).  "  Oh, 
Rosalie,  don't  be  one  of  us.  Don't  you  see  how  we  are 
just  drifting,  drifting?  Don't  do  anything  where  you'll 
just  drift,  Rosalie." 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  drift,  Keggo,"  said  Rosalie. 
(Miss  Keggs,  in  the  little  room,  had  been  "Keggo"  a 
long  time  then.)  "  I'm  not  going  to  drift.  I'm  going 
to  have  a  man's  career.  I'm  going  into  business !  Keggo, 
that's  the  mystery  of  that  book  I'm  always  reading  that 
you're  always  asking  me  about :  '  Lombard  Street '  — 
Bagehot's  '  Lombard  Street.'     Oh,  Keggo,  thrilling." 

She  began  to  tell  Keggo  her  stupendous  enter- 
prise. .    .   . 

There  is  in  the  study  of  man  nothing  more  curious  or 
more  interesting  than  the  natural  bent  of  an  individual 
mind.  An  arrow  shot  to  the  north  and  another  from  the 
same  bow  to  the  south  spring  not  apart  more  swiftly 
or  more  opposedly  than  the  minds  of  two  children 
brought  up  from  one  mother  in  the  same  nursery.  The 
natural  bent  of  each  impels  it.  Art  this  one,  science  that; 
to  Joe  adventure,  to  Tom  a  bookish  habit.  Rosalie's 
natural  bent  declared  itself  in  "figures";  in  the  opera- 
tions, as  she  discovered  them,  of  commerce;  in  the  mys- 
terious powers,  as  they  appealed  to  her,  developed  in 
countinghouses  and  exerted  by  countinghouses.  The  ro- 
mance of  commerce !  A  mind  double-edged,  with  in- 
quisitiveness  the  one  edge  and  acquisitiveness  the  other 
(as  certainly  Rosalie's)  is  a  sword  double-edged  that 
will  cut  through  the  tough  shell  and  into  the  lively  heart 
of  anything.  No  more  is  required  than  to  give  the  young 
mind  a  glimpse  of  the  lively  heart  that  is  there.  Rosalie's 
young  mind  was  already  beating  with  half -fledged  wings 


THIS  FREEDOM  95 

against  the  shell  about  that  side  of  life  wherein,  in  her 
experience,  (of  her  brothers,  of  Uncle  Pyke,  of  Uncle 
Pyke's  friends)  men  did  the  things  that  earned  them  live- 
lihood and  gave  them  independence.  Along,  by  happy 
chance,  buried  in  dust  in  the  rectory  study  and  found  one 
holiday,  came  "  Lombard  Street "  and  Bagehot,  and 
that  was  the  book  and  Bagehot  was  the  man  to  give 
pinions  to  those  fledgling  wings.  She  saw  romance,  and 
thrusted  for  it,  in  the  business  of  countinghouses.  It 
was  fascinating  to  her  beyond  anything  the  discovery 
that  money  was  not,  as  she  had  always  supposed,  a  thing 
that  you  took  with  one  hand  and  paid  away,  and  lost, 
with  the  other.  Not  at  all !  It  was  a  thing  that,  properly 
handled,  you  never  lost.  Enthralling!  Thrilling!  You 
invested  it  and  it  returned  to  you;  you  expended  it  and 
propped  it  up  with  fascinating  things  called  sinking  funds, 
and,  although  you  had  spent  it,  there  it  was  coming  back 
to  you  again !  It  was  the  most  mysterious  and  wonderful 
commodity  in  the  world.  She  got  hold  of  that  and  she 
went  on  from  that. 

The  romance  of  business !  That  ships  should  go  out 
across  the  seas  with  one  cargo  and  sell  it,  not,  in  effect, 
for  money,  but  for  another  and  an  entirely  different 
cargo;  that  cheques  passing  between  countries,  and 
cheques  circulating  about  the  United  Kingdom,  should 
be  traded  off  one  against  the  other  in  magic  conjuring 
palaces  called  Clearing  Houses  wath  the  result  that  thous- 
ands of  little  streams  merged  into  few  great  rivers  and 
only  differences  need  be  paid :  that  money  (heart  and  driv- 
ing-force of  all  the  mysteries)  should  have  within  itself 
the  mysterious  and  astounding  quality  of  ceaselessly  re- 
duplicating itself  —  "the  only  thing  in  the  world,"  as 
Rosalie  quaintly  put  it  to  Miss  Keggs  —  "  the  only  thing 
in  the  world  that  people,  business  people,  will  take  care 
of   for  you   without  charging  you   for  storage   or   for 


96  THIS  FREEDOM 

trouble "  —  that  these  mysterious  and  extraordinary 
things  should  be  thrilled  Rosalie  as  the  mysterious  and 
extraordinary  things  of  science  or  of  nature  or  the  mys- 
terious and  beautiful  things  of  art  or  of  literature  or  of 
music  will  thrill  another. 

That  natural  bent  of  her  mind!  That  Bagehot  that 
ministered  to  her  natural  bent!  Fascinated  by  Banks, 
fascinated  by  the  Exchange,  fascinated  by  the  Pool  of 
London,  where,  obedient  to  the  behests  of  the  counting- 
houses,  floated  the  wealth  that  the  countinghouses  made, 
—  fascinated  by  these  was  Rosalie  as  maidens  of  her 
years  commonly  are  fascinated  by  palaces,  by  the  Tower 
and  by  the  Abbey.  Remember,  it  is  not  what  their  eyes 
see  that  fascinates  these  romantic  young  misses.  A  dolt 
can  see  the  Tower  walls  and  see  no  more  than  crumbling 
bricks  and  stone.  It  is  what  their  minds  see  that  fasci- 
nates the  ardent  creatures.  Well,  Rosalie's  mind  saw 
strange  romance  in  countinghouses. 

That  Bagehot ! 

And  then  must  be  picked  up  —  and  were  with  time 
picked  up  —  others  of  the  magic  man's  enchantments. 
"  Literary  Studies,"  but  she  passed  over  that,  the  burn- 
ing subject  was  not  there.  ''Economic  Studies";  it 
much  was  there.  "  International  Coinage."  She  read 
that!  It  approached  the  subject  of  a  Universal  Money 
and  her  thought  was,  "  Why,  what  a  splendid  idea  to  have 
one  coinage  that  would  go  everywhere!"  And  then, 
opening  a  new  field,  and  yet  a  connected  field  and  a  field 
profoundly  engrossing  to  her,  "  The  English  Constitu- 
tion." Hozv  laws  came;  hozv  laws  worked;  the  mysteri- 
ousness  (her  word)  within  the  Council  chambers  that 
produced  governance  as  the  mysteriousness  within  the 
countinghouses  produced  wealth !  The  mysterious  qual- 
ity within  precedent  and  necessity  and  change  that  repro- 
duced  itself    in   laws   as   the   mysterious   quality   within 


THIS  FREEDOM  97 

money  caused  money  to  reproduce  itself  in  wealth;  the 
romance  of  governance. 

It  was  like  that  that  her  interests  were  shaping. 


It  was  very  easy,  it  was  utterly  delightful,  to  tell  all 
this  to  Keggo.  It  was  not  at  all  easy,  it  was  very  terrible, 
to  tell  it  before  Uncle  Pyke.  It  was  appalling,  it  was 
terrific,  to  break  to  the  house  in  Notting  Hill  that 
she  desired  to  earn  her  living,  not  as  a  teacher,  but  in 
business  —  like  men. 

It  was  at  dinner  at  the  glittering  table  In  the  splendid 
dining-room  of  the  magnificent  house  in  Notting  Hill, 
Rosalie  there  on  the  half-term  week-end  of  her  last 
term,  that  the  frightful  thing  was  done.  At  dinner :  Uncle 
Pyke  Pounce  bathing  in  his  soup;  beautiful  Laetitia  ele- 
gantly toying  with  hers;  Aunt  Belle  beaming  over  her 
solid  silver  spoon  at  Rosalie.  "  Try  that  soup,  dear  child. 
It's  delicious.  My  cook  makes  such  delicious  soups. 
Lady  Houldsworth  Hopper  —  Sir  Humbo  Houldsworth 
Hopper,  you  know  he's  in  the  India  Office,  you  must  have 
heard  of  him  —  was  dining  with  us  last  week  and  said 
she  had  never  tasted  such  delicious  soup.  It  was  the 
same  as  this.  I  asked  cook  specially  to  make  it  for  you. 
Now  next  term,  when  you  are  one  of  the  mistresses  at 
Oakwood  House  and  living  at  their  table  and  you  have 
soup,  you'll  be  able  to  say  —  for  you  must  speak  up 
when  you  are  with  them,  dear  child,  and  not  be  shy  — 
you'll  be  able  to  tell  them  what  delicious  soup  you  always 
get  at  your  Uncle  Colonel  Pyke  Pounce's.  Be  sure  to 
mention  your  Uncle  by  name,  Colonel  Pyke  Pounce,  R.E., 
not  just  '  my  uncle,'  and  that  he  was  a  great  deal  in 
India  where  he  was  entirely  responsible  for  the  laying 
of  the  Puttapong  Railway  and  received  an  illuminated 
address  from  the  Rajah  of  Puttapongpoo,  such  a  fine 
old  fellow,  not  being  allowed  of  course  to  take  a  present, 


98  THIS  FREEDOM 

which  you  have  seen  many  times  hanging  in  his  study 
in  his  fine  house  in  Pilchester  Square,  Netting  Hill 
(some  of  them  are  sure  to  have  heard  of  Pilchester 
Square,  though  never  visited  there,  of  course)  ;  your 
uncle  will  show  you  the  address  again  after  dinner;  that 
will  be  nice,  won't  it,  dear?     Won't  you,  Pyke?" 

(F-r-r-T-r-r-rup!  from  the  splendid  holder  of  the  il- 
luminated address  from  the  Rajah  of  Puttapongpoo, 
bathing  in  his  soup.) 

"  Be  sure  to  speak  up  for  yourself  like  that,  dear  child, 
and  let  them  know  who  you  are  and  that  though  you  are 
poor  and  have  to  earn  your  living  you  have  wealthy  rela- 
tions (though  of  course  we  are  only  comfortably  off  and 
do  not  pretend  to  be  rich)  and  are  not  at  all  like  ordinary 
governesses.  Be  sure  to,  dear.  There;  now  you've  fin- 
ished that  soup  and  wasn't  it  delicious,  just?  You  will 
have  another  helping,  I  know  you  will.  A  second  help- 
ing of  soup  is  not  usual,  dear,  and  Laetitia  or  any  one 
at  any  of  our  parties  would  never  take  it,  but  it's  quite 
different  for  you,  and  I  do  love  to  see  you  enjoy  the  nice 
food  I  get  for  you.    More  soup  for  Miss  Aubyn,  Parker." 

Now  for  it! 

"  Aunt,  I  won't  have  any  more  soup.  I  won't  really. 
It  was  delicious.  Delicious,  but  really  no  more.  Really. 
Aunt.  .  .  .  About  the  governesses  there  and  being  one 
of  them.  I  wanted  to  say  .  .  .  Aunt,  I  don't  want  to  be 
a  pupil-teacher.     Aunt  ..." 

Fr-r-r-r-ri(p!     Frr-r-roosh!     Woosh!     Wr-r-r-roosh! 

It  is  the  holder  of  the  illuminated  address  from  the 
Rajah  of  Puttapongpoo  most  terribly  and  fear-strikingly 
struggling  up  out  of  his  soup.  "  Don't  wanto  bea  pupil 
teacher?     Wat  d'ye  mean?     Wat  d'ye  mean?" 

"  Why,  Rosa//>,  darVmgl  "  It  is  the  exquisitely  beauti- 
ful daughter  of  the  holder  of  the  illuminated  address 
from  the  Rajah  of  Puttapongpoo. 


THIS  FREEDOM  99 

"  Never  mind  them.  Rosalie.  The  dear  child !  Why, 
how  crimson  she  is.  Let  the  dear  child  speak.  What  is 
it,  dear  child?  "    It  is  kind  Aunt  Belle. 

"  Aunt  Belle.  Aunt  Belle,  I  don't  want  to  earn  my  liv- 
ing like  that.  I  want  to  earn  it  like  —  like  a  man.  I 
want  to  —  well,  it's  hard  to  explain  —  to  go  to  an  office 
like  a  man  —  and  have  my  pay  every  week,  like  a  man  — 
and  have  a  chance  to  get  on  like  men,  like  a  man.  I  want 
to  go  into  the  City  if  I  possibly  could,  or  start  in  some 
way  like  going  into  the  City.  I  know  it  sounds  awful  — 
telling  it  to  you  —  but  girls  are  doing  it,  a  few.  They're 
just  secretaries  and  clerks,  of  course.  They're  just  noth- 
ing, of  course.  But,  oh,  it's  something,  and  I  do  want 
it  so.  To  have  office  hours  and  a  —  a  desk  —  and  a  — 
an  employer  and  be  —  be  like  men.  I  don't  mean,  I  don't 
mean  a  bit,  imitate  men  like  all  that  talk  there  is  now 
about  imitating  men.  I  hate  women  in  stiff  collars  and 
shirts  and  ties  and  mannishness  like  that;  and  indeed  I 
hate  —  I  dislike  men  —  I  can't  stand  them,  not  in  that 
way,  if  you  understand  what  I  mean  —  " 

''  Rossi\ie\"  (Laetitia.) 

"  Oh,  Laetitia,  oh,  Aunt  Belle,  I'm  only  saying  that 
to  show  I  don't  mean  I  want  to  be —  .  It  is  so  fearfully 
difficult  to  explain,  this.  But  Aunt,  you  do  see  what  I 
am  trying  to  mean.  It's  just  a  man's  work  that  I  mean 
because  I'd  love  it  and  because  I  don't  see  why  —  .  And 
it's  just  that  particular  kind  of  work  —  in  the  City.  Be- 
cause I  believe,  I  do  believe,  I  would  be  sharp  and  good 
at  that  work.  Figures  and  things.  I  love  that.  I'm 
quick  at  that,  very  quick.  And  I've  read  heaps  about  it 
—  about  business  I  mean  —  about  —  " 

Uncle  Pyke  Pounce :  Uncle  Fyke  Pounce,  holding  his 
breath  because  he  is  holding  his  exasperation  as  one  holds 
one's  breath  in  performance  of  a  delicate  task  :  Uncle  Pyke 
Pounce  crimson,  purply  blotched,  infuriated,  kept  from 


100  THIS  FREEDOM 

his  food,  blowing  up  at  last  at  the  parlourmaid :  "  Bring 
in  the  next  course !  Bring  in  the  next  course !  Watyer 
staring  at?  Watyer  waiting  for?  Watyer  listening  to? 
Rubbish.    Pack  of  rubbish." 

The  parlourmaid  flies  out  on  the  gust  of  the  explosion. 
Rosalie  finishes  her  sentence  while  the  gust  inflates  again. 

"  Read  heaps  about  it  —  about  business  —  about  trade 
and  finance  and  that.    It  fascinates  me." 

The  gust  explodes  at  her. 

"  Wat  d'yer  mean  read  about  it?    Read  about  zvhatf  " 

"  Uncle,  about  money,  about  finance  and  things.  I 
know  it's  extraordinary  I  should  like  such  thinsfs.  But 
I  do.  I  can't  tell  why.  It's  like  —  like  a  romance  to 
me,  all  about  money  and  how  it  is  made  and  managed. 
There's  a  book  I  found  in  father's  study  at  home.  '  Lom- 
bard Street'  by  Bagehot.  That's  all  about  it,  isn't  it? 
I  can't  tell  you  how  I  have  read  it  and  reread  it." 

"Never  heard  of  it.  'Lombard  Street?'  Bagehot f 
Who's  Bagehot?  " 

"  I  think  he  was  a  banker.  Uncle." 

"  I  think  he  was  a  fool !  " 

It  comes  out  of  the  red  and  swollen  face  of  the  holder 
of  the  illuminated  address  from  the  Rajah  of  Putta- 
pongpoo  like  a  plum-stone  spat  at  her  across  the  table. 
Rosalie  blinked.  These  beastly  men !  Violent,  vulgar, 
fat,  rude  beasts !  Uncle  Pyke  the  worst  of  them !  But 
she  came  back  bravely  from  her  flinch.  "  If  he  wasn't 
a  banker,  he  knew  all  about  banking.  Oh,  that's  what  I 
would  be  more  than  anything  —  that's  what  I  do  want 
to  be  —  a  banker  —  in  a  bank  !  " 

The  holder  of  the  illuminated  address  from  the  Rajah 
of  Puttapongpoo  as  if,  having  expectorated  the  plum- 
stone,  he  desired  to  expectorate  also  the  taste  thereof,  spat 
out  an  obscene  sound  of  contempt  and  disgust.  "  Fah! 
I  say  the  man,  whoever  he  was,  was  a  fool.     And  I  say 


THIS  FREEDOM  101 

this,  Miss.  I  don't  often  speak  sharply,  but  I  say  that 
I  think  I  know  another  fool  —  a  little  fool  —  at  this  table. 
Fah!     Enough  of  it!     What's  this?    Trout?" 

Aunt  Belle  to  the  rescue !  If  Uncle  Pyke  and  Aunt  Belle 
had  kept  house  in  Seven  Dials  instead  of  Notting 
Hill,  Uncle  Pyke  would  have  beaten  Aunt  Belle  and 
Aunt  Belle  would  have  taken  the  blows  without  flinch- 
ing and  then  have  wheedled  Uncle  Pyke  with  drops  of 
gin.  As  it  was,  Uncle  Pyke  was  merely  boorish  or  tor- 
pidly savage  towards  Aunt  Belle  and  Aunt  Belle's  way 
with  him  —  as  with  all  combative  men  —  was  to  rally 
him  with  a  kind  of  boisterous  chaff  and  to  discharge  it 
at  him  as  an  urchin  with  an  armful  of  snowballs  fear- 
fully discharges  them  at  an  old  gentleman  in  a  silk  hat : 
backing  away,  that  is  to  say,  before  an  advance  and  ad- 
vancing before  a  retreat.  Uncle  Pyke  usually  retreated, 
either  to  eat  or  sleep. 

Aunt  Belle  had  blinked,  as  Rosalie  had  blinked,  at  that 
horrible  epithet  "  Little  fool !  "  across  the  table.  The  lips 
that  uttered  it  were  immediately  stuffed  with  trout  and 
Aunt  Belle  immediately  rushed  in  in  her  rallying  way  to 
the  rescue.  "  Why,  you  great,  big  stupid  Uncle  Pyke !  " 
cried  Aunt  Belle  vivaciously.  "  It's  you  who  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about,  you  unkind  old  thing,  you. 
Why,  many,  many  girls,  quite  nice  girls,  are  going  into 
business  now  and  being  secretaries  and  things  and  doing 
very,  very  well  indeed.  Why,  I  declare  it  would  do  you 
good  to  have  a  lady  secretary  yourself  in  that  big,  dusty 
office  of  yours  in  the  City,  never  dusted  from  one  year's 
end  to  another,  I'm  sure!  Laetitia,  wouldn't  it  do  your 
father  good,  the  cross,  grumpy  old  thing?  Give  your 
master  some  more  of  the  sauce,  Parker.  Isn't  that  trout 
delicate  and  nice,  Pyke?  Trout  for  a  pike!  And  I'm 
sure  very  like  a  nasty,  savage  old  pike  the  way  you  tried 
to  gobble  up  poor  Rosalie,  the  dear  child.     Now,  Rosalie. 


102  THIS  FREEDOM 

dear  child,  I  think  that's  a  very,  very  good  idea  of  yours 
to  go  into  business.  I  think  it's  a  splendid  idea,  and  more 
and  more  quite  nice  girls  will  soon  be  doing  it.  Now 
we'll  just  see  w^hat  we  can  do  and  we'll  make  that  cross 
old  uncle  help  and  ask  all  his  cross  old  friends  in  the 
City,  just  to  punish  him.  A  young  Lady  Clerk,  or  a 
young  Lady  Secretary!  Now  I  think  that's  the  very, 
very  thing  for  you.  Just  the  thing,  and  a  dear,  clever 
child  to  think  of  it.     Yes!  " 

Kind,  kind  Aunt  Belle!  Victory  through  Aunt  Belle! 
Accomplishment!  A  career  like  a  man!  Aunt  Belle  had 
said  it  and  Aunt  Belle  would  do  it !  A  career  like  a  man ! 
Oh,  ecstatic  joy!  "Lombard  Street"  had  been  brought 
with  her  in  her  week-end  suitcase.  Directly  she  could 
get  to  bed  she  rushed  up  to  it  and  took  it  out  and  read, 
and  read.  It  was  all  underlined.  She  underlined  it  more 
that  happy,  happy  night! 

Ah,  never  underline  a  book  till  vou  are  fortv.  Never 
memorialise  what  you  were,  your  lovely  innocence,  your 
generous  heart,  your  ardent  hopes,  lest  the  memorial  be 
found  one  day  by  what  you  have  become.  Rosalie,  find- 
ing that  "  Lombard  Street,"  unearthed  from  lumber,  in 
long  after  years,  turned  over  the  pages  and  from  the  pages 
ghosts  rushed  up  and  filled  the  room,  and  filled  the  air, 
and  filled  her  heart,  and  filled  her  eyes;  and  she  rent  the 
book  across  its  perished  binding  and  pushed  it  from  her 
with  both  her  hands  on  to  the  fire  and  on  to  the  flames 
in  the  fire. 


CHAPTER    III 

Incredibly  soon,  so  stealthy  swift  is  time,  came  this 
last  term  of  Rosalie's  at  the  Sultana's.  Time  does  not 
play  an  open  game.  It's  of  the  cloak  and  dagger  sort. 
It  stalks  and  pounces.  Rosalie  was  astonished  to  think 
she  was  leaving;  and  now  the  time  had  come  she  was 
sorry  to  be  going.  Not  very  sorry;  very  excited;  but 
having  just  enough  regret  to  realise,  on  looking  back, 
that  she  had  been  very  happy  at  school  and  to  realise, 
actively,  happiness  in  this  last  term.  One  knows  what  it 
is.  It's  always  like  that.  One  always  was  happy :  one  so 
seldom  is.  Happiness  to  be  realised  needs  faint  percep- 
tion of  sadness  as  needs  the  egg  the  touch  of  salt  to  mani- 
fest its  flavour.  Flashes  of  entertainment  may  enliven 
the  most  wretched  of  us;  but  that's  pleasure;  that's  not 
happiness.  One  comes  to  know  the  only  true  and  ideal 
happiness  is  happiness  tinctured  with  faintest,  vaguest 
hint  of  tears.  It  is  peace;  and  who  knows  peace  that 
has  not  come  to  it  through  storm,  or  knoweth  storm 
ahead,  or  in  storm  past  hath  not  lost  one  that  would 
have  shared  this  peace? 

So  that  girl's  last  term  w^as  (in  her  words)  "tremen- 
dously jolly."  She  was  just  eighteen,  and  she  was 
leaving,  and  responsive  to  this  the  harness  of  the  school 
w^as  drawn  off  her  as  at  the  paddock  gate  the  headstall 
from  a  colt.  She  was  out  of  lessons.  She  did  some 
teaching  of  the  younger  girls.  She  was  on  terms  with 
the  mistresses.     She  had  the  run  of  Keggo's  room. 

Such  talks  in  Keggo's  room.  .  .  .  She  was  out  from 
the  cove  of  childhood;  she  was  into  the  bay  of  youth; 


104  THIS  FREEDOM 

breasting  towards  the  sea  of  womanhood  (that  sea  that's 
sailed  by  stars  and  by  no  chart)  ;  and  she  was  encounter- 
ing tides  that  come  to  young  mariners  to  perplex  them 
and  Keggo  could  talk  about  such  things  with  the  experi- 
ence that  so  enraptures  young  mariners  and  of  which 
young  mariners  are  at  the  same  time  so  confidently  con- 
temptuous, so  superiorly  sceptical.  Nearer  to  press  the 
simile,  youth  at  the  feet  of  experience  is  as  one,  experi- 
enced, climbing  a  mountain  with  the  young  thing  panting 
behind.  "  Go  on !  Go  on !  "  pants  the  growing  young 
thing.  "  This  is  ripping.  Go  on.  Show  the  way.  But 
I  don't  want  your  hand.  I  can  do  it  easily  by  myself  — 
better."  And  one  evening  while  Rosalie  stumblingly  ex- 
plained, and  eagerly  received,  and  sceptically  doubted, 
"  But  look  here,  Keggo,"  she  cried,  and  stopped  and 
blushed,  abashed  at  her  use  of  the  nickname. 

Miss  Keggs  laughed.  "  Don't  mind,  Rosalie.  Call 
me  Keggo.  I  like  it.  It's  much  more  friendly.  I'm 
very  fond  of  you,  Rosalie." 

They  were  by  the  oil  stove.  Miss  Keggs  in  her  wicker 
armchair,  Rosalie  on  the  floor,  her  back  propped  against 
Miss  Keggs's  knees.  One  of  Miss  Keggs's  hands  was 
on  Rosalie's  shoulder  and  she  moved  it  to  touch  the  girl's 
face.    "  Are  you  fond  of  me,  Rosalie?  " 

Rosalie  turned  towards  her  and  spoke  impulsively. 
"Oh,  awfully  — Keggo." 

The  woman  stooped  and  kissed  the  growing  young 
thing,  hugging  her  strongly,  pressing  her  lips  upon  the 
lips  of  Rosalie  wath  a  great  intensity.  "  Oh,  I  shall  be 
sorry  when  you  go,  Rosalie." 

"  We  can  still  be  friends,  Keggo  dear." 

Miss  Keggs  shook  her  head.  "  Ships  that  pass  in  the 
night." 

"O  Keggo!" 

Miss  Keggs  smiled,  a  wintry  smile.     "  O  Rosalie !  " 


THIS  FREEDOM  105 

she  mimicked.  She  sighed.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  it's  true  — 
true !    Don't  you  remember  how  the  Hnes  go  — 

*  Ships    that   pass    in   the    night   and    speak   each   other   in 
passing ; 
Only  a  signal  shown  and  a  distant  voice  in  the  darkness/ 

Just  remember  that  in  a  few  years.  You'll  hail  again 
perhaps.  '  O  Keggo ! '  Or  I  —  it  is  more  likely  —  will 
hail  '  O  Rosalie ! '  Just  remember  it  then."  Her  hand 
came  down  to  Rosalie  and  Rosalie  took  it.  It  was  so 
cold ;  and  on  her  face  a  strained  and  beaten  look  as  though 
hand  and  face  belonged  to  one  that  stood  most  chilled 
and  storm-beat  upon  the  bridge,  peering  through  the 
storm.  Her  fingers  made  no  motion  responsive  to  Rosa- 
lie's warm  touch.  She  said  strangely,  as  though  it  was 
to  herself  she  spoke,  "  Does  it  mean  anything  to  you, 
Rosalie,  a  vision  like  that?  Can  you  see  a  black  and 
violent  night  and  a  ship  going  by  full  speed,  and  one 
labouring,  and  through  the  wind  and  the  blackness  a  hail 
—  and  gone,  and  the  wreck  left  foundering?  " 

Ah,  that  most  generous  and  quickly  moved  and  loving 
Rosalie  —  then!  How  she  twisted  to  her  knees  and 
stretched  her  arms  about  that  poor  Keggo,  sitting  there 
so  drooped!  How  readily  into  her  eyes  her  young  and 
warm  and  ardent  sympathies  pressed  the  tears,  their  flow- 
ers !  How  warm  her  words !  How  warmly  spoken !  *'  O 
Keggo!  Keggo,  dear!  Keggo,  why  do  you  talk  like 
that?  How  can  you?  After  all  the  kindness  you've 
shown  me,  accusing  me  that  I'll  forget  and  not  mind  I 
Keggo,  you  shan't.    You  mustn't." 

Then  Keggo  responded,  catching  her  arms  about  Rosa- 
lie and  straining  Rosalie  to  her  as  though  here  was  some 
cable  to  hold  against  the  driving  sea.     "  O  Rosalie!  " 

And  after  a  little  Rosalie  said,  "  You  won't  again  say 


106  THIS  FREEDOM 

I  ever  shall  forget,  or  hail  and  pass  by.  Oh,  that  was 
cruel,  Keggo!  " 

Keggo  was  gently  crying.     "  Natural.     Natural." 

"  Unnatural.  Horrible.  And  you  ?  Why  do  you  say 
such  things  about  yourself?  You  didn't  mean  it?  It's 
nothing?     How  can  you  ever  be  a  wreck,  foundering?  " 

Keggo  dried  her  eyes  and  by  her  voice  seemed  to  put 
those  things  right  away.  "  No,  nothing.  Of  course  not. 
Darling  girl,  only  this  —  you're  young  —  young  and  so 
of  course  you  are  going  by  full  sail  as  young  things  do. 
Full  sail!  O  happy  ship!  Rosalie,  go  on  telling.  Go 
on  asking.     I  love  it,  Rosalie." 

She  was  always  "Keggo"  after  that;  and  the  things 
that  Rosalie  told  and  asked! 

Such  things !  It  is  to  be  seen  that  now  there  were 
bursting  into  blossom  out  of  bud  within  that  Rosalie  those 
seeds  planted  in  her  by  the  extraordinary  ideas  of  her 
childhood.  About  men.  First  and  always  predominat- 
ing, about  men  as  compared  with  women  —  their  wonder, 
their  power,  their  importance,  their  infinite  superiority; 
then  about  men  in  their  relations  with  women  —  their 
rather  grand  and  noisy  ways  that  made  Rosalie  blink; 
their  interfering  presence  that  spoilt  lessons  and  spoilt 
walks;  those  sinister  attributes  of  theirs,  arising  some- 
how out  of  their  freedom  to  do  as  they  liked  in  the  world, 
that  somehow  left  the  world  very  hard  for  w^omen.  Gro- 
tesque ideas,  but  masterful  ideas,  masterfully  shaping  the 
child  mind  wherein  they  germinated;  burrowing  in 
clutchy  roots;  pressing  up  in  strong  young  saplings. 
Agreed  the  child  is  father  of  the  man,  but  much  more 
the  girl  is  mother  of  the  woman.  It  is  the  man's  part 
to  sow  and  ride  away;  conception  is  the  woman's  office 
and  that  which  she  receives  she  tends  to  cherish  and  in- 
icorporate  within  her.     Of  her  body  that  function  is  her 


THIS  FREEDOM  107 

glory;  of  her  mind  it  is  her  millstone.  Man  always  rides 
away,  a  tent  dweller  and  an  Arab,  with  a  horse  and  with 
the  plains  about  him ;  woman  is  a  dweller  in  a  city  with  a 
wall,  a  house  dweller,  storing  her  possessions  about  her 
in  her  house,  abiding  with  them,  not  to  be  sundered  from 
them. 

So  with  that  Rosalie.  Those  childhood  ideas  of  hers 
were  grotesque  ideas  but  she  had  received  them  into  her 
house  and  they  remained  with  her,  shorn  of  their  gro- 
tesqueness,  as  garish  furniture  may  be  upholstered  in  a 
new  pattern,  but  tincturing  her  life  as  the  appointments 
of  a  room  will  influence  the  mood  of  one  that  sits  therein. 
Father  owned  the  world  —  all  males  had  proprietorship 
in  the  world  under  father  —  all  men  were  worshipful  and 
giants  and  genii.  That  was  the  established  perception 
and  those  its  earliest  images.  The  perception  remained, 
deepening,  changing  only  in  hue,  as  a  viscid  liquid  solidi- 
fies and  darkens  in  a  vessel  over  the  fire.  It  remained, 
persisted.  Time  but  steadied  the  focus  as  the  wise  oculist, 
seeking  for  his  patient  the  perfect  image,  drops  lenses  in 
the  frame  through  which  the  vision  chart  is  viewed.  In  a 
little  the  perfect  image  is  found.  There  was  that  Rosalie, 
come  to  maidenhood,  come  to  the  dizzy  edge  of  leaving 
school,  with  the  perfect  image  of  her  persistent  obsession; 
with  the  belief  no  longer  that  men  were  magicians  hav- 
ing the  world  for  their  washpot  and  women  for  their 
footstool,  but  unquestionably  that  they  "  had  a  better 
time  "  than  women  and  that  they  secured  this  "  better 
time  "  by  virtue  of  their  independence, 

"And,  Keggo,"  (she  is  explaining  it)  "I'm  going 
to  be  like  that.  I'm  going  to  be  what  a  man  can  be.  Why 
shouldn't  I?  Why  shouldn't  a  woman?"  She  paused 
and  then  went  on.  "  Why,  that's  the  thing  that's  been 
with  me  all  my  life,  ever  since  I  can  remember.  I've  al- 
ways known  that  men  were  the  creatures.    Always.    Since 


108  THIS  FREEDOM 

I  was  so  high.  Oh,  I  used  to  have  the  most  ridiculous 
ideas  about  them.  You'd  scream,  Keggo.  And  I've  al- 
ways had  the  same  attitude  towards  them  —  towards  them 
as  contrasted  with  women,  I  mean.  First  awe,  then  envy, 
then,  since  I've  been  growing  up  here,  just  as  having 
a  desirable  position  in  life,  as  having  the  desirable  posi- 
tion in  life,  independence,  a  career,  work,  freedom,  a  goal 
—  yes,  and  a  goal  that's  always  and  always  a  little  bit  in 
front  of  you,  always  something  better.  That's  the  thing. 
That's  the  thing,  Keggo.  Just  look  at  the  other  side. 
Take  a  case  in  point.  Take  my  painful  cousin,  Laetitia, 
sweet  but  in  lots  of  ways  very  painful.  What's  her  goal? 
A  good  match!  A  good  match!  Did  you  ever  hear  any- 
thing so  futile  and  sickening?  Sickening  in  itself,  but 
I'll  tell  you  what's  really  sickening  about  it  —  why,  that 
she'll  get  it  —  get  her  goal  and  then  it's  done,  over,  fin- 
ished, won.  Settle  down  then  and  get  fat.  Oh,  I  don't 
want  a  goal  I  can  win.  I  want  a  goal  I  can't  win.  One 
that's  always  just  in  front." 

She  suddenly  realised  the  intensity  of  her  voice  and 
laughed  and  shook  her  head  sideways  and  back.  She  had 
just  recently  put  her  hair  up  and  it  still  felt  funny  and 
tight  and  the  laugh  and  the  shake  eased  away  the  tightness 
of  voice  and  of  hair.  She  said  thoughtfully,  "  You  know, 
I  believe  I'm  rather  like  a  man  in  many  ways,  in  points 
of  view.  It's  through  always  thinking  them  better,  I 
daresay.  The  ideas  I've  had  about  them !  "  and  she 
laughed  again.  She  said  slowly,  "  Though  mind  you, 
Keggo,  they  arc  better  in  many  ways.  They  can  get  away 
from  things.  They  don't  stick  about  on  one  thing.  And 
they're  violent,  not  fussing.  When  they're  angry  they 
bawl  and  hit  and  it's  over  and  they  forget  it.  They  don't 
just  nag  on  and  on.     Oh,  yes,  they're  better." 

She  extended  her  palms  to  the  oil  flame,  and  watching 
the  X-ray-like  effects  of  the  light  and  shadow  upon  her 


THIS  FREEDOM  109 

fingers,  she  added  indifferently,  as  one  idly  letting  drop 
a  remark  requiring  no  comment,  negligently  with  the 
voice  of  one  saying  "  Tomorrow  is  Tuesday,"  or  "  It's 
mutton  today,"  —  "  Of  course  tliey're  beasts,"  she  added. 

"  Of  course  they're  beasts."  It  was  the  adjusted  image 
to  which  she  had  brought  that  other  perception  of  men 
which,  running  parallel  with  the  perception  of  their  su- 
perior position,  had  permeated  her  childhood  years. 


CHAPTER  IV 

She's  left  the  school !  She's  living  in  the  splendid 
house  in  Pilchester  Square  looking  for  a  post ! 

She's  found  a  post!  She's  private  secretary  to  Mr. 
Simcox ! 

She's  left  the  splendid  house  in  Pilchester  Square ! 
She's  living  an  independent  life!  She's  going  to  Mr. 
Simcox's  office,  her  office,  every  day,  just  like  a  man! 
She's  living  on  her  own  salary  in  a  boarding  house  in 
Bayswater ! 

What  jumps!  One  clutches,  as  at  flying  papers  in  a 
whirlwind,  at  a  stable  moment  in  which  to  pin  her  down 
and  describe  her  as  she  jumps.  One  can't.  The  thing's 
too  breathless.  It's  a  maelstrom.  It's  an  earthquake. 
It's  a  deluge.  It's  a  boiling  pot.  It's  youth.  What  it 
must  be  to  live  it!  One  thing  pouring  on  to  another  so 
that  it's  impossible  anywhere  to  pick  hold  of  a  bit  that 
isn't  changing  into  something  else  even  as  it  is  examined. 
That's  youth  all  over.  Always  and  all  the  time  all  change. 
What  it  must  be  to  live  it ! 

What  it  must  be !  Why,  when  youth  comes  bursting 
out  of  tutelage  there's  not  a  stable  thing  beneath  its  feet 
nor  above  its  head  a  sky  that  stays  the  same  for  two 
hours  together !  Every  stride's  a  stepping-stone  that 
tilts  and  throws  you;  every  dawn  a  sudden  midnight 
even  while  it  breaks,  and  every  night  a  blinding  brilliance 
when  it's  darkest.  New  faces,  new  places ;  new  dresses, 
new  dishes;  new  foes,  new  friends;  new  tasks,  new  tri- 
umplis ;  never  a  pause,  never  a  platform ;  every  day  a 
year  and  every  year  a  day  —  not  life  on  a  firm  round 


THIS  FREEDOM  111 

world  but  life  in  the  heart  of  a  whirling  avalanche.  How 
youth  can  live  it!  And  all  the  time,  all  the  time  while 
poor,  dear  youth  is  hurtling  through  it,  there's  age,  in- 
stead of  streaming  sympathy  like  oil  upon  those  boil- 
ing waters,  standing  in  slippered  safety,  in  buttoned 
dignity,  in  obese  repose,  bawling  at  tumbling  youth, 
"  Why  can't  you  settle  down !  Why  can't  you  settle 
down!  Why  do  you  behave  like  that?  Why  can't  you 
do  as  I  do?  Why  can't  you  be  like  your  wise  and  sober 
Uncle  Forty?  Or  like  your  good  and  earnest  Auntie 
Fifty?  Why  can't  you  behave  like  your  pious  grand- 
mother? Why  can't  you  imitate  your  noble  grand- 
father? Oh,  grrrr-r,  why  can't  you,  you  impious,  un- 
natural, ill-mannered,  irresponsive,  irresponsible  exasper- 
ating young  nuisance,  you!"  Is  it  any  wonder  poor 
youth  bawls  back,  or  feels  and  behaves  like  bawling  back, 
"  How  to  goodness  can  I  behave  like  my  infernal  uncle 
or  my  maddening  aunt  when  I'm  whirling  along  head 
over  heels  in  the  middle  of  a  roaring  avalanche?" 

Oh,  poor  youth,  that  all  have  lived  but  none  remem- 
bers! 

One  clings,  faut  an  mieux,  to  the  intention  to  tell  of 
her  life  only  the  things  in  her  life  that  contributed  to  her 
record,  as  records  are  judged.  There  shall  be  enormous 
omissions.     They  shall  be  excused  by  vital  insertions. 

She  shall  be  glimpsed,  first,  in  the  splendid  house  in 
Pilchester  Square,  in  the  desperate  business  that  getting 
a  place  for  a  woman  in  a  business  house  was  when  women 
were  in  business  houses  far  more  rare  than  are  silk  hats 
in  the  City  in  1922.  It  was  desperate.  Uncle  Pyke  and 
Uncle  Pyke's  friends  were  the  only  channel  of  oppor- 
tunity; and  Uncle  Pyke  and  Uncle  Pyke's  friends  re- 
fused to  be  a  channel  of  opportunity.  They  had  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing  and  they  desired  to  bathe  in  their 


112  THIS  FREEDOM 

soup  and  smack  over  their  wine  and  not  be  troubled  with 
such  a  thing. 

Aunt  Belle  rallied  them  and  baited  them  and  told  them 
ihey  were  "  great  big  grumpy  things  " ;  and  Aunt  Belle, 
in  her  crowded  drawing-room,  loved  talking  about  the 
search  for  work  and  did  talk  about  it.  "  Has  to  earn  her 
own  living,"  Aunt  Belle  w^ould  chatter,  "  and  is  going 
into  business!  Oh,  yes,  ever  so  many  girls  who  have 
to  earn  their  own  living  are  going  into  business  now. 
She'll  wear  a  nice  tailormade  coat  and  skirt  and  carry 
a  little  satchel  and  flick  about  on  the  tops  of  buses,  in 
the  City  at  nine  and  out  again  at  six  and  a  nice  plain 
■wholesome  lunch  with  a  glass  of  milk  in  a  tea  shop. 
Oh,  it's  wonderful  what  girls  who  have  to  earn  their  own 
living  do  nowadays.  Quite  right,  you  know.  Quite  right 
(for  them).  Come  over  here,  Rosalie.  Come  over  here, 
dear  child,  and  tell  Mrs.  Roodle-Hoops  what  you  are 
going  to  do.     The  dear  child !  " 

But  nothing  done. 

Just  that  glimpse  and  then  comes  Mr,  Simcox. 

Mr.  Simcox  was  first  met  by  Rosalie  while  walking 
with  Aunt  Belle  and  beautiful  cousin  Laetitia  in  the 
Cromwell  Road.  He  came  along  carrying  a  letter  in  his 
hand  with  the  obvious  air  of  one  who  will  forget  to  post 
it  if  he  puts  it  in  his  pocket  and  probably  will  forget  to 
do  so  in  any  case.  He  was  as  obviously  "  a  man  of  about 
fifty-six  " :  that  curiously  precise  figure,  neither  a  ten 
nor  a  five,  always  used  for  men  who  look  as  Mr.  Simcox 
looked  and  always  continued  to  look  while  Rosalie  knew 
him,  and  probably  always  had  looked.  Men  of  "  about 
fifty-six "  —  one  never  says  "  about  thirty-six  "  or 
"  about  sixty-six  "  ;  it  would  be  "  about  thirty-five  "  or 
*'  about  seventy  "  —  men  of  "  about  fifty-six  "  are  almost 
certainly  born  at  that  age  and  with  that  appearance  and 
they  seem  to  continue  in  it  to  their  graves. 


THIS  FREEDOM  113 

Mr.  Simcox  was  like  that,  and  was  short  and  had  two 
httle  bunchy  grey  whiskers,  and  wore  always  a  pepper 
and  salt  jacket  suit,  unbuttoned,  the  pockets  of  which 
always  bulged  and  the  skirts  of  which,  containing  the 
pockets,  always  swayed  and  flapped.  When  he  talked  he 
was  always  talking  —  if  that  is  understood  —  and  when  he 
was  busy  he  was  always  frantically  busy  and  looking  at 
the  clock  or  at  his  watch  as  if  it  were  going  to  explode  at 
a  certain  rapidly  approaching  hour  and  he  must  at  all  costs 
be  through  with  what  he  was  doing  before  it  did  ex- 
plode. He  talked  in  very  rapid  jerks,  always  seeming  to 
l3e  about  to  come  to  rest  and  then  instantaneously  bound- 
ing off  again,  rather  like  a  man  bounding  along  step- 
ping-stones, red-hot  stepping-stones  that  each  time  burnt 
his  feet  and  set  him  flying  off  again. 

He  had  been  in  the  Bombay  house  of  a  firm  of  indigo 
merchants  and  there  had  known  Aunt  Belle  and  Uncle 
Pyke.  He  had  retired  and  settled  in  London  and  he  now 
came  very  briskly  up  to  Aunt  Belle,  to  Rosalie  and  to 
beautiful  Laetitia,  greeting  them  and  bursting  into  full 
stream  of  chatter  while  he  was  yet  some  distance  away; 
and,  having  been  introduced  to  Rosalie  and  snatched  at 
her  hand  precisely  as  if  doing  so  while  shooting  in  mid- 
air between  one  red-hot  stepping-stone  and  the  next, 
whizzed  presently  to  "  I  really  came  out  to  post  a  letter  " 
and  flapped  the  letter  in  the  air  as  if  it  were  a  bothersome 
thing  stuck  to  his  fingers  and  refusing  absolutely  to  be 
stuffed  into  a  post-box. 

"Why,  there's  a  pillar-box  just  there;  you've  just 
passed  it,"  cried  Rosalie. 

"  Why,  so  there  is !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Simcox,  jumping 
round  to  stare  at  the  pillar-box  as  if  it  had  stretched  out 
an  arm  and  given  him  a  sudden  punch  in  the  back,  and 
then  spinning  towards  Rosalie  and  staring  at  her  rather 
as  if  he  suspected  her  of  having  put  the  pillar-box  there 


114  THIS  FREEDOM 

while  he  was  not  looking;  and  while  Mr.  Simcox  was  so 
exclaiming  and  so  doing  Rosalie  had  said,  "  Do  let  me 
just  post  it  for  you.  Do  let  me,"  and  had  snapped  the 
obstinate  letter  from  his  fingers,  and  posted  it  and  was 
back  again  smiling  at  Mr.  Simcox,  whom  she  rather 
liked  and  who  reminded  her  very  much  of  a  jack-in-the- 
box. 

Indeed  with  his  quick  ways,  his  shortness,  his  bushy 
little  grey  whiskers  and  his  pepper  and  salt  suit  with  its 
flapping  pockets,  Mr.  Simcox  was  very  like  one  of  those 
funny  little  jack-in-the-boxes  they  used  to  sell.  He  said 
to  her,  regarding  her  with  very  apparent  pleasure  and 
esteem,  "  Well,  that's  very  nice  of  you.  That  really  is 
very  nice  of  you.  And  it's  most  wonderful.  It  is  indeed. 
Do  you  know,  I  must  have  walked  more  than  a  mile  look- 
ing for  a  letter-box  and  I  daresay  I  should  have  walked 
another  mile  and  then  forgotten  it  and  taken  the  letter 
home  again."  He  addressed  Aunt  Belle :  "  It's  a  most 
astonishing  thing,  Mrs.  Pyke  Pounce,  but  I  cannot  post 
a  letter.  I  positively  cannot  post  a  single  letter.  When 
I  say  single  I  do  not  mean  I  can  post  no  letter  at  all. 
No,  no.  Far  from  it.  I  mean  I  can  post  no  letter  singly, 
by  itself,  solus.  My  daily  correspondence,  my  office  batch, 
I  take  out  in  a  bundle,  perhaps  in  a  table  basket.  That  is 
simple.  But  a  single  letter  —  as  you  see,  a  clever  young 
lady  like  this  has  to  find  a  box  for  me  or  I  might  carry 
the  thing  for  days  together.  Astonishing  that,  you  know. 
Astonishing,  annoying,  and  mind  you,  sometimes  serious 
and  embarrassing." 

"  Why,  you  busy,  busy  person,  you !  "  cried  Aunt  Belle 
with  her  customary  air  towards  a  man  of  shaking  her 
finger  at  him.  "  You  very  busy  person !  Fancy  a  basket 
full  of  correspondence !  Why  what  a  heap  you  must 
have!" 


THIS  FREEDOM  115 

Mr.  Simcox  said  he  had  indeed  a  heap.  "  Sometimes 
I  think  more  than  I  can  manage." 

"  Indeed,"  agreed  Aunt  Belle,  "  you  don't  seem  to 
have  much  time  to  spare.  Why,  I  haven't  seen  you  in  my 
drawing-room  for  quite  a  month  ("  You  busy  little  crea- 
ture, you,"  expressed  without  being  stated).  "I  expect 
you're  getting  very  rich  and  disagreeable."  ("  You  rich 
little  rascal,  you!  ") 

Mr.  Simcox  declared  that  as  to  that  his  business  wasn't 
one  to  get  rich  at.  "In  no  sense.  Oh,  no,  in  no  sense. 
It  keeps  me  occupied.  It  gives  me  an  interest.  That's 
all.  No  more  than  that."  As  to  Mrs.  Pyke  Pounce's 
delightful  drawing-room,  most  certainly  he  had  been  there 
less  than  a  month  ago  and  most  certainly  he  would  present 
himself  again  on  the  very  next  opportunity.  To-morrow, 
was  it?  He  would  without  fail  present  himself  there  to- 
morrow, "  and  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Simcox,  taking  his 
leave,  "  I  hope  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  my 
postmistress  there  again."  He  smiled  very  cordially  at 
Rosalie  and  went  flapping  away  up  the  street  at  the  pace 
and  with  the  air,  not  of  one  who  had  come  out  to  post  a 
letter  and  had  posted  it,  but  of  one  who  had  come  out  to 
post  a  letter,  had  dropped  it,  and  was  flying  back  to  look 
for  it. 

"  Oh,  isn't  he  an  ugly  little  monster !  "  cried  Aunt  Belle, 
resuming  the  walk. 

"  But  I  think  he's  nice,"  said  Rosalie.  "  What  is  his 
business,  Aunt  Belle?  " 

Aunt  Belle  hadn't  an  idea.  "  He's  an  agent,"  said  Aunt 
Belle,  "  but  an  agent  for  what  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
He's  a  very  mysterious,  fussy,  funny  little  person.  We 
knew  him  in  Bombay  where  he  had  a  very  good  position, 
but  he  retired  and  what  he  does  now  I'm  sure  I  can't 
say.  But  he's  very  busy.  You  heard  him  say  how  busy 
he  is.     Rosalie,  he  might  know  of  something  for  you. 


116  THIS  FREEDOM 

We'll  ask  him,  dear  child.    The  funny,  ugly  little  monster ! 
We'll  ask  him.     He  might  help."' 

He  did  help.  A  very  short  while  afterwards  Rosalie 
received  the  appointment  of  Private  Secretary  to  Mr. 
Simcox;  twenty-five  shillings  a  week;  one  pound  five 
shillings  a  week !  Office  hours  ten  to  five !  Saturdays 
ten  to  one!  Holiday  a  fortnight  a  year!  A  man's  work! 
a  man's  weekly  salary !  a  man's  office  hours !  The  ecstasy 
of  it!  the  ecstasy! 

The  matter  with  Mr.  Simcox  was  that,  in  India  a  man 
of  aft"airs,  in  England  he  found  himself  a  man  of  no  af- 
fairs and  a  man  who  had  "  lost  touch."  On  a  leave 
from  the  Bombay  house  of  the  indigo  firm  he  had  been 
prevailed  upon  by  his  mother  and  his  maiden  sister  to 
remain  at  home  and  look  after  them  and  he  had  done  it 
and  gone  on  doing  it,  and  they  had  died  and  he  had  never 
married,  and  he  had  now  no  relatives,  and  by  this  and  by 
that  (as  he  told  Rosalie  early  in  her  installation)  he  had 
dropped  out  of  friendships  and,  as  he  expressed  it  "  lost 
touch."  He  owned  and  occupied  one  of  those  enormous 
houses  in  Bayswater.  It  had  been  his  mother's  and  he 
lived  on  in  it  after  her  death  and  the  death  of  his  sister, 
alone  with  a  housekeeper.  The  housekeeper  resided  in 
the  vast  catacombs  of  the  basement  of  the  enormous 
house;  Mr.  Simcox  resided  in  the  immense  reception 
rooms,  miles  above,  of  the  first  floor;  the  three  suites 
above  him.  scowling  gloomily  across  a  square  at  the 
twin  mausoleums  opposite,  were  unoccupied  and  un- 
visited ;  on  the  first  floor  Mr.  Simcox  had  his  office.  The 
business  done  in  this  office,  which  Rosalie  was  now  to 
assist,  and  why  it  was  done,  was  in  this  wise  and  was 
thus  explained  to  Rosalie. 

Mr.  Simcox,  more  than  ever  dropped  out  and  more 
than  ever  having  lost  touch  after  the  deaths  of  his  sister 


THIS  FREEDOM  117 

and  mother,  found  himself  irked  more  than  anything  else 
by  the  absence  of  correspondence.  He  had  been  accus- 
tomed in  India  to  a  big  receipt  of  letters  —  a  big  dJiak, 
as  he  called  it,  using  the  Hindustani  word  —  now  he  re- 
ceived no  letters  at  all;  and  he  told  Rosalie  that  when 
you  are  in  the  habit  of  getting  a  regular  daily  post,  its 
gradual  falling  off  and  then  its  complete  cessation  is  one 
of  the  most  melancholy  things  that  can  befall  a  man.  A 
nice  bunch  of  letters  in  the  morning,  he  said,  is  like  a  cold 
bath  to  a  3^oung  man,  a  stimulant  and  an  appetiser ;  and 
a  similar  packet  by  the  night  delivery  is  an  entertainment 
to  look  forward  to  from  sunset  till  it  arrives  and  the 
finest  possible  digestive  upon  which  to  go  to  bed.  Mr. 
Simcox  found  himself  cut  off  from  both  these  necessities 
of  a  congenial  life  and  it  depressed  him  beyond  concep- 
tion. Dressing  in  the  morning  he  would  hear  the  post- 
man come  splendidly  rat-tatting  along  the  square  and 
would  hold  his  breath  for  that  glorious  thunder  to  come 
echoing  up  from  his  own  front  door  —  and  it  never  did. 
Only  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  came,  hurrying  past  — 
always. 

Set  to  his  solitary  dinner  in  the  evening,  again  would 
come  along  that  glorious,  reverberating  music,  and  again 
Mr.  Simcox  would  hold  his  breath  as  it  approached  and 
again  —  !  Oh,  particularly  in  the  winter,  it  was  awful, 
Mr.  Simcox  told  Rosalie.  Awful ;  she  wouldn't  believe 
how  awful  it  was.  In  the  winter,  in  the  dark  nights, 
there  is,  Mr.  Simcox  said,  about  the  sound  of  the  post- 
man banging  along  the  doors  something  tliat  is  the  sheer 
essence  of  all  the  mystery,  and  all  the  poetry,  and  all  the 
life,  and  all  the  comfort,  and  all  the  light  and  all  the 
warmth  in  the  world.  Often  on  winter  nights  Mr.  Sim- 
cox w^ould  get  up  quickly  from  the  table  (He  couldn't 
help  it)  and  go  tiptoe  (Why  tiptoe?  He  didn't  know. 
You  had  to.     It  was  the  mystery  and  the  aching  atmos- 


118  THIS  FREEDOM 

phere  of  the  thing)  tiptoe  across  the  room  to  the  win- 
dow, and  draw  an  inch  of  the  heavy  curtain  and  peer  out 
into  the  darkness  and  towards  the  music.  There  would 
be  the  Httle  round  gleam  of  the  postman's  lantern,  bob- 
bing along  as  he  hurried.  And  flick!  it  was  gone  into 
a  doorway,  and  rat-tat,  flick,  and  there  it  was  again  — 
coming!  Flick,  rat-tat!  Flick,  flick,  rat-tat!  Coming, 
coming!  Growing  larger,  growing  brighter,  growing 
louder !  Next  door  now.  They  always  get  it  next  door. 
Flick,  rat-tat!  What  a  crasher!  You  can  feel  it  echo! 
Flick!  Now  then!  Now  then!  How  it  gleams!  He's 
stopped!  He's  looking  at  his  letters!  He's  coming  in! 
He  is  —  ah,  he's  passed;  he's  gone;  it's  over;  nothing 
.  .  .  nothing  for  here.  .  .  .  Rat-tat !  That's  next  door. 
The  party  wall  shakes.  The  lustres  on  the  mantelpiece 
shake.  Mr.  Simcox's  hands  shake.  He  sits  down,  pushes 
his  plate  away.  .    .    . 

It  is  absurd;  it  is  ridiculous,  of  course  it  is;  but  it  was 
pathetic,  it  was  moving,  as  it  was  received  from  Mr. 
Simcox  by  that  young  and  most  warm-hearted  Rosalie. 
Her  eyes  positively  were  caused  to  blink  as  she  listened. 
She  had  an  exact  vision  of  that  funny  little  jack-in-the- 
box  figure  up  from  the  table  and  tiptoeing  across  the 
enormous  dining  room  in  his  little  pepper  and  salt  suit 
with  the  pockets  swaying,  not  flapping,  as  he  trod  along, 
and  opening  that  inch  of  the  heavy  curtain  and  pressing 
out  his  gaze  through  the  black  window  pane,  and  watch- 
ing the  gleam  and  the  flick  and  then  the  crash  and  the 
gleam  again,  and  then  holding  his  breath  and  hearing  his 
heart  go  thump,  and  then  dropping  the  curtain,  and  back 
again,  with  his  hands  shaking  a  little  and  hearing  the 
lustres  tinkle.  .   .   . 

Yes,  very  moving  to  that  Rosalie  in  her  youth  and 
warmth.     She  had  actually  to  touch  her  nose  (high  up, 


THIS  FREEDOM  119 

between  her  eyes)   with  her  handkerchief  and  she  said, 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Simcox.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  then  what?  " 

"  Then  what?  Ah!  *  Then  what '  is  this."  They  were 
seated  in  Mr.  Simcox's  great  office  on  the  ground  floor. 
The  office  of  a  man  of  many  affairs.  A  very  large  writ- 
ing table  furnished  with  every  conceivable  facility  for 
writing,  not  only  note  papers  and  envelopes  racked  up  in 
half  a  dozen  sizes,  but  sealing  waxes  in  several  hues, 
labels,  string,  "  In  "  basket,  "  Out  "  basket,  "  Pending 
Decision  "  basket,  all  sorts  of  pens,  all  sorts  of  pencils, 
wafers,  clips,  scales,  letter  weights,  rulers  —  the  table  ob- 
viously of  a  man  to  whom  correspondence  was  a  de- 
votional, an  engrossing,  an  exact  art,  and  an  art  practised 
on  an  expansive,  an  impressive,  and  a  lordly  scale.  There 
were  also  in  the  office  a  very  large  plain  table  on  which 
were  spread  newspapers,  a  basket  containing  clippings 
from  newspapers,  an  immense  blue  chalk  for  marking 
newspapers  and  a  very  long,  also  a  very  short,  pair  of 
scissors  for  cutting  out  clippings  from  newspapers.  A 
range  of  filing  cabinets  stood  against  one  wall ;  a  library 
of  directories  and  catalogues  occupied  shelves  against  an- 
other wall. 

"  *  Then  what '  is  this,"  said  Mr.  Simcox,  indicating 
these  impressive  appointments  of  the  room  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand.  "  You  ask  me  '  then  what?  '  '  Then  what ' 
is  all  this.  '  Then  what '  has  grown  now  to  be  you. 
I'll  tell  you." 

It  was  this  —  the  oddest,  most  eccentric  notion  (not 
that  Rosalie  it  thought  so).  Mr.  Simcox,  cut  off  from 
letters,  had  determined  that  he  must  get  letters.  He 
ivoiild  get  letters.  If  the  postman  would  not  come  of 
himself  (so  to  speak)  then  he  must  be  forced  to  come. 
And  Mr.  Simcox  set  about  forcing  him  to  come  by 
answering  advertisements.  Not  employment  advertise- 
ments; no;  the  advertisements  to  which  Mr.  Simcox  re- 


120  THIS  FREEDOM 

plied  were  the  advertisements  that  offered  to  send  you 
something  for  nothing  —  that  implored  you  to  permit 
them  to  send  you  something  for  nothing.  They  are  com- 
mon objects  of  the  periodical  press.  Every  paper  is 
stuft'ed  with  them.  "  Write  for  free  samples."  "  Cata- 
logues." "  Trial  packet  sent  post  free  on  application." 
"  Write  for  our  beautifully  illustrated  art  brochure." 
"  Descriptive  booklet  by  return."  "  Write  for  full  par- 
ticulars." "  Free  sample  bottle  sufficient  for  seven  days' 
trial."  "  Approval  gladly.  Postpaid."  "  Plans  and  par- 
ticulars of  the  sole  agents."  "  Superbly  printed  art  vol- 
ume on  receipt  of  postcard." 

The  advertisement  columns  of  every  paper  are  stuft'ed 
with  them  and  soon  the  letter-box  of  Mr.  Simcox  was 
stuffed  with  them.  The  postman  who  never  stopped  at 
Mr.  Simcox's  house  now  never  missed  Mr.  Simcox's 
house.  He  went  on  a  lighter  and  a  brisker  man  after 
having  dealt  with  Mr.  Simcox's  house.  The  agitation 
with  which  his  approach  was  heard  was  now  exchanged 
for  a  superb  confidence  as  his  approach  was  heard.  The 
deliveries  that  for  Mr.  Simcox  had  never  been  deliveries 
were  now,  not  deliveries,  but  avalanches.  They  roared 
into  the  letter-box  of  Mr.  Simcox.  They  cascaded  upon 
the  floor  of  the  hall  of  Mr.   Simcox. 

A  mail  thus  composed  does  not  perhaps  sound  inter- 
esting. Mr.  Simcox,  once  he  had  got  into  the  full  swing 
of  the  thing,  discovered  it  to  be  profoundly  and  exhaus- 
tively interesting.  It  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  the 
two  primary  essentials  of  a  really  good  mail,  —  surprise 
and  variety.  There  would  always  be  two  or  three  fasci- 
nating little  parcels,  there  would  always  be  two  or  three 
handsome  packets,  there  would  always  be  two  or  three 
imposing  looking  letters.  No  common  correspondence 
could  possibly  have  had  the  number  of  attractively  boxed 
gifts,  the  amount  of  handsomely  printed  literary  and  il- 


THIS  FREEDOM  121 

lustrated  matter,  and  certainly  not  the  unfailing  persist- 
ency of  flow,  that  constituted  the  correspondence  of  Mr. 
Simcox. 

The  mine  once  discovered  proved  to  be  a  mine  inex- 
haustible and  containing  lodes  or  galleries  of  new  and 
unsuspected  wealth.  Mr.  Simcox  took  in  but  two  daily 
papers,  and  two  penny  weekly  papers,  and  they 
might  well  have  sufficed.  But  an  appetite  whetted  and 
an  eye  opened  they  did  not  suffice.  There  thundered  from 
the  Bayswater  free  library  a  positive  babel  of  cries  from 
advertisers  in  the  score  of  journals  there  displayed,  howl- 
ing for  Mr.  Simcox  graciously  to  permit  them  to  con- 
tribute their  toll  to  his  letter-box;  and  there  were  at  the 
news  agents  periodicals  catering  for  every  specialised 
class  of  the  community  and  falling  over  themselves  to  put 
before  Mr.  Simcox  the  full  range  of  the  mysteries,  the 
luxuries  and  the  necessities  of  every  trade  and  profession 
and  pursuit,  from  shipbuilding  to  cycling  and  from  iron- 
mongery to  the  ownership  of  castles,  moors,  steam  yachts 
and  salmon  fisheries. 

Mr.  Simcox,  entirely  happy,  one  of  the  busiest  men 
that  might  be  found  in  the  metropolis,  struck  out  new- 
lines.  Hitherto  he  had  received  his  correspondence  inter- 
estedly and  pleasurably  but  passively.  He  began  to  take 
it  up  actively  and  sharply.  He  began  to  write  back,  either 
graciously  approving  or  very  sharply  criticising  his  sam- 
ples, his  specimens  and  his  free  trials ;  and  the  advertisers 
responded  voluminously,  either  abjectly  with  regret  and 
enclosing  further  samples  for  Mr.  Simcox's  esteemed 
trial,  or  abjectly  with  delight  and  soliciting  the  very  great 
favour  of  utilising  Mr.  Simcox's  esteemed  letter  for  pub- 
licity purposes.  This,  however,  Mr,  Simcox,  courteously 
but  firmly,  invariably  refused  to  permit. 

The  engagement  of  Rosalie  was  a  development  of  Mr. 
Simcox's  hobby  as  natural  as  the  development  of  any 


122  THIS  FREEDOM 

other  hobby  from  rabbit  breeding  to  china  collecting.  The 
craze  intensifies,  the  scope  is  enlarged.  To  have  a  secre- 
tary made  Mr.  Simcox's  mail  and  the  work  that  produced 
his  mail  even  more  real  than  already  it  had  become  to 
him.  Following  up  the  personal  touch  that  had  been  dis- 
covered by  the  criticism  of  samples,  Mr.  Simcox  had 
opened  up  a  line  that  produced  the  personal  touch  in  most 
intimate  degree :  personal  touch  with  schools  and  with 
insurance  companies.  He  created  for  himself  sons, 
daughters,  nephews,  nieces,  wards.  He  endowed  them, 
severally,  with  ages,  with  backwardness,  with  brilliancy, 
with  robustness,  with  delicacy,  with  qualities  that  were 
immature  and  required  development,  with  absence  of  qual- 
ities that  were  desirable  and  required  implanting,  with 
unfortunate  tendency  to  qualities  that  were  undesirable 
and  needed  repression  and  nipping  in  the  bud.  He  placed 
these  children,  thus  handicapped  or  endowed,  before  the 
principals  of  selected  schools;  he  desired  that  terms  and 
full  particulars  might  be  placed  before  him  to  assist  him 
in  the  anxious  task  of  right  selection.  They  were  placed 
before  him.  "  Your  backward  nephew  Robin  "  (to  take 
a  single  example)  engaged  the  personal  attention  of  pre- 
paratory schoolmasters  from  Devonshire  to  Cumberland 
and  from  Norfolk  to  Carnarvon.  Similarly  with  insur- 
ance companies.  Again  dependents  and  friends  were  cre- 
ated, by  the  dozen,  by  Mr.  Simcox.  Male  and  female 
created  he  them,  cumbered  with  all  imaginable  risks,  and 
darkly  brooding  upon  all  manner  of  contingencies;  and 
male  and  female,  cumbered  and  perplexed,  they  were 
studied  and  advised  upon  by  insurance  companies  earnest 
beyond  measure  to  show  Mr.  Simcox  what  astounding 
and  unparalleled  benefits  could  be  obtained  for  them. 

At  the  time  when  Rosalie  joined  him,  Mr.  Simcox's 
attention  was  in  much  greatest  proportion  devoted  to  this 
development  of  his  pursuit.     Under  the  instruction  of  a 


THIS  FREEDOM  123 

friend,  long  since  dropped  out  and  lost,  who  had  held  a 
considerable  position  in  a  leading  assurance  company,  he 
had  acquired  a  sound  working  knowledge  of  the  prin- 
ciples and  mysteries  of  insurance.  The  subject  had 
greatly  interested  him.  In  the  phrase  he  used  to  Rosalie 
he  had  "taken  it  up";  and  in  the  phrase  that  so  often 
sequels  and  rounds  off  a  thing  suddenly  "  taken  up  "  he 
had  suddenly  "  dropped  it."  He  now,  by  way  of  the 
new  development  of  his  correspondence,  approached  it 
asfain.  It  received  him  as  a  former  habitation  receives  a 
returned  native.  Mr.  Simcox  (if  the  metaphor  may  be 
pursued)  roamed  all  about  the  familiar  rooms  and  cor- 
ridors of  the  house  of  the  principles  and  mysteries  of  in- 
surance. His  knowledge  of  its  possibilities  enabled  him 
to  develop  an  astonishing  ingenuity  in  creating  cases  ripe 
and  yearning  for  the  benefits  of  provision  against  con- 
tingencies, and  as  he  very  easily  was  able  to  prove  to 
Rosalie,  and  found  immense  delight  in  proving,  he  had 
under  his  finger,  that  is  to  say  in  his  exquisitely  arranged 
filing  cabinets,  also  in  his  head,  a  range  of  insurance  com- 
panies' literature  which  enabled  him  to  work  out  for  any 
conceivable  case  the  most  suitable  office  or  offices  and  the 
finest  possible  cover  for  his  risks.  "  Different  companies 
specialize,"  said  Mr.  Simcox,  "  in  different  classes  of 
risk.  A  man  should  no  more  walk  into  one  of  the  leading 
offices  just  because  it  happens  to  be  one  of  the  leading 
offices  and  there  take  out  his  policy  or  policies  than  he 
should  walk  into  and  take  for  occupation  the  first  vacant 
house  he  sees,  merely  because  it  is,  as  a  house,  a  good 
house.  It  may  be  a  most  excellent  house  but  it  may  not 
be  in  the  least  the  house  most  suitable  to  his  require- 
ments." 

Rosalie  nodded  intelligently.  "  But  how  is  a  man  to 
find  out,  Mr.  Simcox?  " 

"  Why,  I  suppose  only  by  going  round  to  every  com- 


124  THIS  FREEDOM 

pany  and  choosing  the  best,  just  as  I  make  out  and  send 
around  these  cases  of  mine.  But  of  course  no  one  does 
that  —  the  trouble  for  one  thing,  and  ignorance  for  an- 
other, and  inabihty  to  reahse  their  real  requirements  and 
to  state  them  clearly  if  they  do  realise  them  for  a  third. 
That's  what  it  is.'' 

Rosalie's  intelligent  nodding  had  not  ceased.  She  had 
a  trick,  when  Mr.  Simcox  was  explaining  things  to  her,  of 
maintaining,  with  eyes  fixed  widely  upon  him,  a  slow, 
affirmative  movement  of  her  head  rather  as  though  she 
were  some  engine,  and  her  head  the  dial,  absorbing  power 
from  a  flow  of  energy.  The  dial  never  indicated  reple- 
tion. Mr.  Simcox  delighted  to  talk  to  Rosalie,  to  watch 
that  grave  movement  of  her  head,  and  to  hear  the  short 
occasional  "  Why's?  "  and  comments  that  came  like  little 
spurts  or  quivers  as  of  the  engine  in  initial  throbbings 
pulsing  the  power  it  stored. 

She  uKis  absorbing  power.  The  months  were  going 
on.  The  earlier  initiation  into  Mr.  Simcox's  business 
might  have  had  a  tinge  of  disappointment  were  it  not 
that,  whatever  the  nature  of  her  work,  manifestly  work 
it  was,  paid  for,  with  regular  hours,  with  an  office  to 
attend,  such  as  a  man  might  do.  The  tinge  of  disappoint- 
ment, if  she  had  suffered  it,  would  have  stung  out  of 
the  thought :  Where,  in  this  manufactured  correspond- 
ence, in  this  pretence  at  a  business  which  was  in  fact  no 
business  at  all,  where  in  all  this  was  Lombard  Street? 
Where  the  romance  and  mystery  of  finance?  Where  the 
touch  with  the  power  that  was  made  in  countinghouses 
and  with  the  exercise  of  the  power  exerted  from  those 
countinghouses  ? 

T3ut  it  happened  for  Rosalie,  first,  that  this  thought 
could  not  come  because  she  was  too  busy  with  the  glor- 
ious novelty  of  being  in  an  office  and  learning  office  ways ; 
then,  when  the  novelty  had  worn,  that  it  could  not  come 


THIS  FREEDOM  125 

because  a  new  and  a  real  element  arrived  to  nullify  it. 
In  the  early  days  there  was  no  realisation  of  sham  because 
there  was  the  real  business,  to  herself,  of  learning  busi- 
ness methods  and  the  whole  theory  and  practice  of  office 
routine.  She  could  have  had  no  better  instructor  than 
Mr.  Simcox,  she  could  have  had  no  better  training  than 
the  handling,  the  sorting  and  the  filing  of  his  curious  and 
various  correspondence.  She  had  become  an  efficient  and 
a  singularly  apt  and  keen  office  clerk  when,  more  leisured 
because  she  had  mastered  her  duties,  she  might  first  have 
had  time  for  realisation  that  Lombard  Street  was  not 
here  nor  all  the  romance  and  mystery  with  which  she  had 
invested  the  power  of  countinghouses  within  a  thousand 
miles  of  this  house  of  most  elaborate  pretence.  And 
then,  at  once  to  prevent  that  realisation  and  to  dissipate 
its  cause,  came  Lombard  Street  to  her  in  Mr.  Simcox's 
new  absorption  in  (to  her)  the  mysteries  and  the  romance 
and  the  astounding  possibilities  of  the  business  of  insur- 
ance. How  the  mammoth  companies,  whose  names  soon 
were  as  household  words  to  Rosalie,  accumulated  their 
enormous  funds  and  invested  them;  how,  while  provi- 
sioning for  to-day,  they  must  calculate  against  liabilities 
falling  due  in  a  to-morrow  generations  ahead ;  how  they 
would  put  their  money  into  property  the  leases  of  which 
would  fall  in  and  the  estate  become  marketable  again 
perhaps  a  hundred  years  hence,  when  officers  of  the  com- 
pany yet  unborn  would  be  looking  to  the  prudence  of 
those  now  reigning  to  maintain  the  inflowing  tide;  how 
risks  were  calculated  and  vital  statistics  and  chances  and 
averages  studied  —  all  this,  delightedly  and  delightfully 
narrated  by  Mr.  Simcox  (watching  that  gravely  nodding 
head  and  those  wide  intelligent  eyes)  was  sheer  fascina- 
tion to  the  mind  that  had  found  romance  and  mystery 
in  "  Lombard  Street  "  as  commonly  romance  and  mystery 
are  found  in  poetry  and  music. 


126  THIS  FREEDOM 

Then  one  day  she  took  a  step  towards  applying  the 
fascination  that  she  found. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  conversation  that  has  been  re- 
corded. How,  RosaHe  had  asked,  was  the  seeker  after 
insurance  to  find  the  poHcies  best  suited  to  his  case? 
Rosalie  had  asked ;  and  had  been  told  —  he  must  go  round 
but  he  never  does;  he  must  know  what  there  is  to  be 
had  but  he  never  does  know;  he  must  realise  exactly 
what  he  really  wants  but  he  never  does  realise  it;  and  if 
he  does  realise  it  he  must  be  able  to  state  it  clearly  but 
he  never  can  state  it  clearly. 

Mr.  Simcox,  detailing  this,  permitted  himself  an 
amused  contempt.  The  public  were  ignoramuses,  mere 
children ;  they  knew  nothing  whatever  about  insurance. 

Rosalie  said  in  a  voice  consonant  with  the  grave  meas- 
ure of  her  nods:  "Of  course,  if  it  was  a  man,  as  you 
said,  looking  for  a  house,  he'd  go  to  an  agent.  A  house 
agent  would  tell  him  of  houses  best  suited  to  his  needs 
that  he  could  choose  between.  Well,  there  are  insurance 
agents.     You've  told  me  about  them." 

"  Ah,  but  not  the  same  thing,  not  the  same  thing,"  cor- 
rected Mr.  Simcox.  "  An  insurance  agent,  the  ordinary 
insurance  agent,  is  agent  for  a  particular  company.  He 
only  knows  what  his  own  company  can  do  and  he  only 
wants  his  own  company  to  do  it.  That's  no  good  to  the 
kind  of  man  in  the  position  we're  speaking  of.  He  wants 
some  one  who  can  tell  him  what  all  the  companies  will, 
do  for  him.  Some  one  who  can  hear  his  case,  analyse  it, 
put  it  before  him  in  the  right  light  and  advise  him  the 
best  way  of  placing  it.  That's  what  he  wants.  Exactly 
the  same  as  these  letters  I  send  out  —  as  you  and  I  send 
out,  I  should  say.  Why,  I've  had  practical  examples  of 
it.  There  was  a  young  fellow  I  met  at  your  aunt's 
house.  There've  been  three  or  four  cases  of  it  for  that 
matter  but  this  happens  to  be  some  one  you  know  —  ". 


THIS  FREEDOM  127 

He  proceeded  to  tell  her  of  a  visitor  at  Aunt  Belle's, 
a  young  man  home  on  leave  from  the  Indian  army  and 
recently  married,  with  whom  he  had  got  into  conversa- 
tion on  the  subject  of  insurance  and  had  most  ably  helped. 
The  young  man  had  a  certain  policy  in  view.  Mr.  Sim- 
cox  had  put  an  infinitely  better  before  him.  "  If  he  had 
come  to  me  before  his  marriage  when  he  was  first  taking 
out  a  policy  in  his  v^^ife's  favour,  I  could  have  saved  him 
and  gained  her  hundreds,  literally  hundreds,"  said  Mr. 
Simcox.  '*'  He'd  made  a  most  awful  mess  of  the  busi- 
ness. As  it  was  I  helped  him  very  considerably.  He  was 
very  grateful,  devilish  grateful.  He  went  straight  to  an 
agent  of  the  office  I  recommended  and  did  it." 

"  There  must  be  hundreds  like  him  that  would  be 
grateful,"  said  Rosalie. 

"  Thousands,"  said  Mr.  Simcox.    "  Tens  of  thousands 
Every  single  soul  who  insures,  you  may  say." 

"  Who  got  the  commission?  "  said  Rosalie. 

"  The  agent,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Simcox. 

"  Oh,"  said  Rosalie. 

"Why?"  said  Mr.  Simcox. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Rosalie.     "  Only  '  oh  '." 


CHAPTER  V 

There's  much  virtue  in  an  If,  says  Touchstone;  and 
there's  much  virtue  in  an  "  Oh  "  —  a  wise,  a  thoughtful, 
a  speculative,  a  discerning  "  Oh  "  such  as  that  "  Oh  " 
pronounced  by  Rosalie  to  Mr.  Simcox's  information  that 
agents,  and  not  he,  drew  the  commissions  for  the  insur- 
ance policies  which,  out  of  his  knowledge  and  experience, 
he  had  advised.  There  followed  from  that  "  Oh  "  its 
plain  outcome :  her  suggestion  to  Mr.  Simcox  of  why  not 
make  a  business,  a  real  business,  of  expert  advice  upon 
insurance,  and  (out  of  the  make-believe  intercourse  with 
schools)  a  business,  a  real  business,  of  expert  advice  upon 
schools?  And  there  shall  follow  also  from  that  "Oh" 
a  sweeping  use  of  the  intention  that  has  been  mentioned 
to  tell  only  of  her  life  that  which  contributed  to  her  life. 
We'll  fix  her  stage  from  first  to  last,  then  see  her  walk 
upon  it. 

This  was  her  stage :  Her  suggestion  was  adopted.  It 
has,  astonishingly  soon,  astonishing  success.  Advice 
upon  insurance,  advice  upon  schools,  commissions  from 
each,  are  found  wonderfully  to  work  in  together,  each 
bringing  clients  to  the  other.  Aunt  Belle's  swarms  of 
friends,  their  swarms  of  friends,  the  swarms  of  friends 
of  those  swarms  of  friends,  and  so  on,  snowball  fashion, 
are  the  first  nucleus  of  the  thing.  It  succeeds.  It  grows. 
Real  offices  are  taken.  "  Simcox's."  Advertisements, 
clerks,  banking-accounts.  Appearance  of  Mr.  Sturgiss, 
partner  in  Field  and  Company  —  "  Field's  "  —  the 
bankers  and  agents.  Field's  is  a  private  bank.  Its  busi- 
ness is  principally  with  persons  resident  in  the  East,  sol- 


THIS  FREEDOM  129 

diers,  civil  servants,  tea  planters,  East  India  merchants. 
Field's  is  in  Lombard  Street.  (Lombard  Street!)  Later 
Field's  opens  a  West  End  office.  Field's  is  frequently- 
asked  to  advise  its  clients  and  their  wives  on  all  manner 
of  domestic  matters,  —  schools  for  their  children,  holi- 
day homes,  homes  for  clients  over  on  leave,  insurance, 
investment,  whatnot,  a  hundred  things.  Comes  to  this 
Sturgiss,  partner  in  Field's,  an  idea  of  great  possibilities 
in  this  advisory  business  if  developed  as  might  be  de- 
veloped and  run  as  might  be  run.  Tremendously  at- 
tracted by  Rosalie  as  the  person  for  the  job.  Makes  her 
an  offer.  She  declines  it.  Mr.  Simcox's  death.  Stur- 
giss comes  along  again.  Ends  in  Rosalie  going  to  Field's. 
Lombard  Street!  Room  of  her  own  in  the  big  offices. 
Glass  partitioned.  Huge  mahogany  table.  Huge  ma- 
hogany desk.  Field's  open  the  West  End  office,  in  Pall 
Mall.  More  convenient  for  wives  of  clients.  Rosalie  is 
moved  there.  Manager  of  her  own  side  of  the  business. 
The  war  comes.  Sturgiss  goes  out.  Other  important 
officers  of  the  bank  go  out.  Her  importance  increases 
very  much  in  other  sides  of  the  bank's  business  than  her 
own.  Press  scents  her  out  and  writes  her  up.  "  The 
only  woman  banker."  "  Brilliant  woman  financier." 
Contributes  articles  to  the  reviews.  Very  much  a  leading 
woman  of  her  day.  Very  much  a  most  remarkable 
woman. 

That's  her  stage.    Thus  she  walked  upon  it : 

The  beginning  part  —  that  tumult  of  youth,  those 
dizzy  jumps  that  we  have  seen  her  in  —  was  frightfully 
exciting,  frightfully  absorbing.  She  was  so  tremen- 
dously absorbed,  so  terrifically  intent,  so  tremendously 
eager,  that  the  transition  from  the  Sultana's  to  Aunt 
Belle's,  and  the  start  with  Mr.  Simcox,  and  the  transition 
from  Aunt  Belle's  to  independence  in  the  boarding  house. 


130  THIS  FREEDOM 

was  done  with  scarcely  a  visit  —  and  then  a  rather 
grudged  and  rather  impatient  visit  —  to  the  rectory  home. 

No,  the  absorption  was  too  profound  for  much  of 
that :  indeed,  for  much  of  home  in  any  form.  Letters 
came  from  Rosahe's  mother  three  and  four  times  a  week. 
In  the  beginning,  when  fresh  left  school  and  at  Aunt 
Belle's,  Rosalie  always  kissed  the  dear  handwriting  on 
the  envelope,  and  kissed  the  dear  signature  before  return- 
ing the  letters  to  their  envelopes;  and  she  would  sit  up 
late  at  night  writing  enormously  long  and  passionately 
devoted  letters  in  reply.  But  she  wasn't  going  back ;  she 
wasn't  going  down;  no,  not  even  for  a  week-end,  "my 
own  darling  and  beloved  little  mother,"  until  she  had 
found  an  employment  and  was  established  on  her  own 
feet,  "  just  like  one  of  the  boys."  Then  she  would  come, 
oh,  wouldn't  she  just!  She  would  have  an  annual  holi- 
day, "  just  as  men  have,"  and  she  would  come  down  to 
the  dear,  beloved  old  rectory  and  she  would  give  her  own 
sweet,  adored  little  mother  the  most  wonderful  time  she 
ever  could  imagine! 

Rosalie  would  sit  up  late  at  night  writing  these  most 
loving  letters,  pages  and  pages  long;  and  her  mother's 
letters  (which  always  arrived  by  the  first  post)  she  would 
carry  about  with  her  all  day  and  read  again  before 
answering. 

And  yet.  .  .  . 

The  fond  intention  in  thus  carrying  them  on  her  person 
instead  of  bestowing  them  in  her  writing  case  was  to  read 
them  a  dozen  times  in  the  opportunities  the  day  would 
afiford.  And  yet  .  .  .  Somehow  it  was  not  done.  The 
day  of  the  receipt  of  the  very  first  letter  was  generous 
of  such  opportunities  and  at  each  of  them  the  letter  was 
remembered  .  .  .  but  not  drawn  forth.  Rosalie  did  not 
attempt  to  analyse  why  not.  Her  repression,  each  time, 
of  the  suggestion  that  the  letter  should  now  be  taken  out 


THIS  FREEDOM  131 

and  read  again  was  not  a  deliberate  repression.  She 
merely  had  a  negative  impulse  towards  the  action  and 
accepted  it;  and  so  negligible  was  the  transaction  in  her 
record  of  her  thoughts,  so  mere  a  cypher  in  the  petty 
cash  of  the  day's  ledger,  that  in  the  evening  when,  gone 
up  to  bed,  the  letter  was  at  last  drawn  out  and  kissed 
and  read  and  answered,  and  then  kissed  and  read  again, 
no  smallest  feeling  of  remorse  was  suffered  by  her  to 
reflect  that  the  intended  reading  in  the  dozen  opportu- 
nities of  the  day  had  not  been  done. 

And  yet  .  .  .  Was  it,  perhaps,  this  mere  acceptance  of 
a  negative  impulse,  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  the  size  of  a 
man's  hand  upon  the  horizon  of  her  generous  impulses? 
There  is  this  to  be  admitted  —  that  the  letters,  accumu- 
lating, began  to  bulk  inconveniently  in  her  writing  case. 
What  a  lot  dear  mother  wrote!  Room  might  be  made 
for  them  by  removing  or  destroying  the  letters  from 
friends  who  had  left  the  Sultana's  with  her,  but  about 
those  letters  there  was  a  peculiar  attraction;  they  were 
from  other  emancipated  One  Onlys  who  watched  with 
admiration  the  progress  in  her  wonderful  adventure  of 
brilliant,  unconventional  Rosalie,  and  it  was  nice  thus  to 
be  watched.  Or  room  for  her  mother's  letters  might  be 
made  by  removing  or  destroying  letters  that  began  to 
amass  directly  touching  her  desire  for  employment  — 
from  city  friends  of  Uncle  Pyke,  from  Mr.  Simcox.  But, 
no,  unutterably  precious  those!  Unutterably  precious, 
too,  of  course,  those  accumulating  bundles  of  letters  from 
her  dear  mother;  but  precious  on  a  different  plane:  they 
belonged  to  her  heart;  it  was  to  her  head,  to  the  voice 
in  her  that  cried  "  Live  your  life  —  your  life  —  yours!  " 
that  these  others  belonged. 

She  was  tingling  to  that  voice  one  night,  turning  over 
the  employment  letters;  and,  tingling,  put  her  mother's 
letters  from  her  case  to  her  box. 


132  THIS  FREEDOM 

Yes,  upon  the  horizon  of  her  generous  impulses  per- 
haps the  tiniest  possible  cloud.  And  then  perhaps  en- 
larging. You  see,  she  was  so  very  full  of  her  inten- 
tions, of  her  prospects.  She  had  read  somewhere  that 
the  perfect  letter  to  one  absent  from  home  was  a  letter 
stuffed  with  home  gossip,  —  who  had  been  seen  and 
who  was  doing  what,  and  what  had  been  had  for  dinner 
yesterday  and  whence  obtained.  But  she  did  not  sub- 
scribe to  that  view.  She  was  from  home  and  her 
mother's  letters  were  minutest  record  of  the  home  life; 
but  she  began  to  skip  those  portions  to  read  "  after- 
wards." One  day  the  usual  letter  was  there  at  breakfast 
and  she  put  it  away  unopened  so  as  to  have  "  a  really 
good,  jolly  read  "  of  it  "  afterwards."  In  a  little  after 
that  she  got  the  habit  of  always,  and  for  the  same  reason 
(she  told  herself)  keeping  the  letters  till  the  evening. 
One  day  she  gave  the  slightest  possible  twitch  of  her 
brows  at  seeing  the  very,  very  familiar  handwriting.  She 
had  had  a  letter  only  the  previous  day  and  two  running 
was  not  expected;  more  than  that,  this  previous  letter  had 
slightly  vexed  her  by  its  iteration  of  the  longing  to  see 
her  and  by  very  many  closely  written  lines  of  various 
little  troubles.  She  was  a  little  impatient  at  the  idea  of 
a  further  edition  of  it  so  soon.  She  forgot  to  open  it 
that  night.  She  remembered  it  when  she  was  in  bed ;  but 
she  was  in  bed  then  .  .  .  When,  next  day,  she  read  the 
letter  it  was,  again,  an  iteration  of  the  longing  to  see  her 
and,  again,  more,  much  more,  of  the  little  troubles :  the 
residue  was  of  the  gossipy  gossip  that  Rosalie  already 
had  formed  the  habit  of  skipping  till  "  afterwards."  Al- 
together a  vexatious  letter. 

After  that,  when  the  letters  were  frequent,  it  was  fre- 
quent for  Rosalie  to  greet  the  sight  of  them  with  just  the 
swiftest,  tiniest  little  contraction  of  her  brows.  Nothing 
at  all   really.     Meaning  virtually  nothing  and  of  itself 


THIS  FREEDOM  133 

absolutely  nothing.  Possessing  a  significance  only  by 
contrast,  as  a  fine  shade  in  silk  or  wool  will  not  disclose 
a  pronounced  hue  until  contrasted  with  another.  The 
contrast  here,  to  give  the  thing  significance,  was  between 
that  swiftest,  tiniest  contraction  of  the  brows  at  the  sight 
of  her  mother's  letters  and  the  eager  spring  to  them,  the 
quick  snatching  up,  and  the  impulsive  pressing  to  her 
lips  when  first  those  letters  began  to  come.  Likewise 
answering  them,  that  had  been  an  impulsive  outpouring 
and  brimming  over,  now  was  a  very  slightly  laboured 
squeezing.  The  pen,  before,  had  flooded  love  upon  the 
page.  Now  the  pen  halted,  paused,  and  had  to  think  of 
expressions  that  would  give  pleasure. 

The  change  did  not  happen  at  a  blow.  If  it  had,  Ro- 
salie v/ould  have  noticed  it.  It  slipped  imperceptibly  from 
stage  to  stage  and  she  did  not  notice  it. 


CHAPTER   VI 

There  was  a  thing  she  said  about  men  once  (in  the 
boarding  house  now)  and  often  repeated.  "  They're  very 
fond  of  saying  women  are  cats,"  she  once  said.  "  Fools! 
It's  men  that  are  the  cat  tribe :  tame  cats,  tabby  cats,  wild 
cats,  Cheshire  cats,  tomcats  and  stray  cats!  Aren't  they 
just?  And  look  at  them  —  tame  cats  are  miserable  crea- 
tures, tabby  cats  the  sloppy  creatures,  wild  cats  ferocious 
creatures,  Cheshire  cats  fool  creatures,  tomcats  disgust- 
ing creatures,  stray  cats  —  on  the  whole  the  stray  cats 
are  the  least  objectionable,  they  are  bearable :  at  the  right 
time  and  for  a  short  time." 

This  characterisation  of  men  as  Rosalie,  in  sequent 
development  of  her  attitude  towards  men,  had  come  to 
regard  them  was  delivered  to  the  girl  with  whom  (for 
cheapness)  her  room  in  the  boarding  house  was  shared. 
Rosalie  went  from  Aunt  Belle's  to  this  boarding  house  to 
assert  and  to  achieve  her  greater  independence.  A  man, 
Rosalie  debated,  would  have  gone  into  bachelor  rooms; 
but  young  women  did  not  go  into  bachelor  rooms  in  those 
days  and  the  singularity  of  Rosalie's  attitude  towards 
life  is  rather  well  presented  in  the  fact  that  she  never  set 
herself  against  conventions  inhibitory  of  her  sex  merely 
because  they  were  inhibitory  of  her  sex.  When  the  years 
brought  those  violent  scenes  and  emotions  of  what  has 
been  called  the  suffragette  campaign,  Rosalie,  who  might 
have  been  expected  to  be  a  militant  of  the  militants,  took 
no  part  nor  even  interest  in  it  whatever.  She  did  not  de- 
sire the  privileges  of  men  merely  because  they  were  the 
privileges  of  men ;  she  desired  a  status  which  happened 


THIS  FREEDOM  135 

to  be  in  the  right  of  men  and  she  went  towards  it  without 
seeking  to  change  the  estabhshed  order  of  things,  just 
as,  from  one  field  desiring  a  flower  in  another  field,  she 
would  have  gone  to  fetch  it  without  changing  her  dress. 

A  man,  anxious  for  full  independence,  would  have  gone 
into  bachelor  rooms;  but  young  women  did  not  go  into 
bachelor  rooms.  They  achieved  their  independence  per- 
fectly well,  and  far  more  cheaply,  by  going  into  a  board- 
ing house.  She  therefore,  very  excitedly,  went  into  a 
boarding  house. 

There  was  no  difficulty  about  leaving  Aunt  Belle's. 
Once  Rosalie  was  established  in  business  with  Mr.  Sim- 
cox,  tied  to  business  hours,  and  earning  a  weekly  salary, 
she  no  longer  occupied  in  Aunt  Belle's  house  the  position 
of  dependence  which  was  in  Aunt  Belle's  house  the  first, 
and  indeed  the  only,  qualification  for  all  who  occupied 
her  house.  Aunt  Belle's  guests  had  to  be  guests :  wealthy 
guests  who  could  be  entertained  from  early  morning  tea 
(beautifully  served)  to  bedtime  and  made  graciously  to 
admire;  or  if  poor  guests,  and  particularly  poor  relations, 
guests  who  could  be  even  more  impressed  and  were  nat- 
urally much  more  enthusiastically  delighted  and  pro- 
foundly admiring.  Rosalie,  in  business,  could  not  be 
entertained  and  did  not  sufficiently  admire.  She  had  to 
have  a  special  early  breakfast;  she  disappeared;  she  was 
not  in  to  lunch  or  tea;  she  was  not  sufficiently  impressed 
by  what  cook  had  prepared  but  had  rather  too  much  to 
say  about  what  she  had  been  doing,  at  dinner;  and  she 
excused  herself  away  to  early  bed  on  the  ground  of  fa- 
tigue or  of  having  certain  books  to  study.  Rosalie,  in 
business,  was  not  a  guest  at  all  in  Aunt  Belle's  sense  of 
the  word :  indeed  there  came  an  occasion  —  Rosalie  twice 
in  one  week  late  for  dinner  —  when  Aunt  Belle  said 
awfully,  "  My  house  is  not  a  hotel,  Rosalie.  I  cannot 
have  my  nice  house  turned  into  a  hotel." 


136  THIS  FREEDOM 

It  was  the  nearest  thing  to  an  unkind  word  ever  spoken 
by  Aunt  Belle  to  Rosalie,  and  it  was  so  near  that  it 
brought  Aunt  Belle  up  to  Rosalie's  bed  that  night  —  so- 
licitude in  a  terrific  dressing  gown  of  crimson  silk  —  to 
express  the  hope  that  Rosalie  was  not  crying  (she  was 
not;  she  had  been  sound  asleep)  at  anything  Aunt  Belle 
"  might  have  said."  "  But  you  see,  dear  child,  there  are 
the  servants  to  consider,  all  that  delicious  soup  and  all 
that  most  tasty  turbot  au  gratin  to  be  kept  warm  for  you, 
and  there  is  your  kind  Uncle  Pyke  to  consider;  men  do 
not  like  their  meals  to  be  .  .  ." 

The  boarding  house,  which  Rosalie,  with  qualms  as  to 
its  reception  by  Aunt  Belle,  had  for  some  time  been  se- 
cretly meditating,  came  easily  after  that.  The  boarding 
house  had  moreover  for  Aunt  Belle  a  double  attraction. 
It  not  only  removed  Rosalie  in  her  capacity  of  one  threat- 
ening to  turn  Aunt  Belle's  nice  house  into  a  hotel ;  it  also 
restored  Rosalie  in  her  capacity  of  overwhelmed,  grate- 
ful and  admiring  poor  relation.  Rosalie  was  now  invited 
from  the  boarding  house  just  as  previously  she  had  been 
invited  from  the  Sultana's ;  the  table  and  the  appoint- 
ments of  Aunt  Belle's  house  were  now  lavishly  displayed 
in  contrast  to  the  display  and  the  table  endured  by 
Rosalie  at  the  boarding  house ;  Aunt  Belle  was  again 
supremely  happy  in  Rosalie  and  abundantly  kind;  dinner 
each  Saturday  night  was  a  standing  invitation  and  fre- 
quently for  these  dinners  Aunt  Belle  arranged  "  a  little 
dinner  party  for  you,  dear  child,  just  one  or  two  really 
nice  people  that  it  is  nice  for  you  to  meet  and  that  you 
can  tell  your  friends  at  the  boarding  house  about,  dear 
child." 

Aunt  Belle  helped  Rosalie  to  choose  the  boarding  house 
and  saw  that  it  was  "  nice."  Nice  people  went  there  and 
the  proprietress,  Miss  Kentish,  was  nice.  Miss  Kentish 
had   a  grey,   detachable   fringe   which   became,   and  re- 


THIS  FREEDOM  137 

mainecl,  semi-detached  immediately  after  breakfast,  and 
a  mobile  front  tooth  which  came  out  surprisingly  far 
when  she  talked  and  went  in  with  a  sharp  click  when  she 
stopped.  She  had  for  newcomers  a  single  conversational 
sentence  — "  My  name  is  Kentish,  though  funnily 
enough  we  come  from  Sussex  "  —  and,  for  all  purposes, 
a  single  business  principle,  that  of  willingness  "  to  come 
to  an  arrangement."  "  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  remedy  your 
water  not  being  hot  at  eight  o'clock,"  she  would  say  to  a 
boarder,  "  but  I  will  gladly  come  to  an  arrangement  with 
you.  Ten  minutes  to  eight  or  ten  minutes  past  eight  " 
(click).  She  would  come  to  an  arrangement  on  any- 
thing. She  became  very  fond  of  Rosalie  in  course  of 
time  and  once  told  her  that  though  her  duties  never  per- 
mitted her  to  attend  church  she  had  "  come  to  an  arrange- 
ment "  with  the  vicar  and  felt  that  she  had  "  come  to  an 
arrangement  with  Our  Lord"  (click).  She  came  to  an 
arrangement  with  Rosalie  in  the  matter  of  tariff,  re- 
ceiving her  and  a  Miss  Salmon,  who  also  sought  arrange- 
ment, as  "  two  friends  as  one."  This  was  two  persons 
sharing  a  room  at  the  tariff  of  a  person  and  a  half.  Liv- 
ing was  very  cheap  in  those  days.  Rosalie,  at  the  begin- 
ning, with  Miss  Salmon,  paid  18/6  a  week,  and  out  of 
the  twenty-five  shillings  paid  her,  at  first,  every  Friday 
by  Mr.  Simcox  there  remained  what  seemed  to  Rosalie 
great  wealth. 

She  set  herself  to  save  on  it  and  her  first  purpose  in 
thus  saving  was  to  accumulate  money  on  which  she  could 
draw  so  as  to  be  able  to  pay  for  a  room  private  to  herself. 
That  would  have  taken  some  time.  Her  successive  in- 
creases in  her  earnings,  as  Mr.  Simcox's  hobby  developed 
into  a  business,  brought  privacy,  and  in  time  what 
amounted  to  luxury,  by  much  swifter  process.  Rosalie 
was  a  very  long  time  at  the  boarding  house.  From  being 
two  friends  as  one  she  passed  to  a  small  remote  room  of 


138  THIS  FREEDOM 

her  own,  then  to  a  larger  and  more  accessible  room,  then 
to  a  bed-sitting-room,  finally  to  a  very  delightful  arrange- 
ment. There  was  on  the  second  floor  a  fine  roomy  apart- 
ment having  a  dressing-room  opening  out  of  it.  Rosalie, 
by  then  in  much  favour  with  Miss  Kentish,  not  only  se- 
cured the  suite  but  "  came  to  an  arrangement  "  with  Miss 
Kentish  by  which  the  furniture  and  fittings  were  removed 
from  the  rooms  and  Rosalie  permitted  to  fit,  decorate 
and  furnish  them  herself.  Rosalie  never  knew  happier 
hours  than  in  the  furnishing  of  those  two  rooms  into  a 
Httle  kingdom  of  her  own :  she  never  in  all  her  life  knew 
days  as  happy  as  the  days  there  spent. 

But  at  the  beginning,  two  friends  as  one  with  Miss 
Salmon  and  first  contact  with  life  from  the  angle  pre- 
sented by  some  tw^enty  various  individuals  met  at  meals 
and  in  the  public  rooms.  Miss  Salmon  was  a  pale,  fussy 
creature  with  pince-nez  in  some  mysterious  way  set  so 
far  from  her  eyes  that  she  always  appeared  to  be  running 
after  them  as  if  to  keep  them  balanced.  Whenever  any- 
thing of  which  she  did  not  approve  was  being  said  to 
Miss  Salmon  or  was  being  done  before  Miss  Salmon,  she 
maintained  throughout  it,  moving  about  in  pursuit  of  her 
pince-nez,  a  rather  loud,  constant,  tuneless  humming. 
When  her  moment  came  she  would  always  begin  "  Well, 
now "  and  then  swallow  forcibly  as  though  the  swal- 
lowing gave  her  pain.  "Well,  now"  (gulp).  This  in- 
troduction was  always  precedent  to  speech  by  Miss  Sal- 
mon, whether  after  humming  or  not.  Rosalie  frequently 
went  to  Sunday  church  service  with  her  and  there  was 
an  occasion  in  the  Litany  on  which  Miss  Salmon,  who 
either  had  been  wandering  or  sleeping,  suddenly  came  to 
herself  at  the  correct  moment  and  said :  "  Well,  now  "  — 
(gulp)  —  "  We  beseech  thee  to  hear  us,  O  Lord." 

Miss  Salmon  was  employed  as  a  daily  nursery  gov- 
erness by  a  family  resident  across  the  park  who,  not  hav- 


THIS  FREEDOM  139 

ing  room  for  her,  had  "  come  to  an  arrangement  "  with 
Miss  Kentish  for  her  accommodation  at  the  boarding 
house ;  and  with  her  f ussiness,  her  nose  pursuit,  her  hum- 
ming and  her  general  ineptitude  of  habit  and  of  thought, 
she  was  as  it  were  a  fated  companion  for  Rosahe ;  and  it 
was  the  case  that  all  the  other  inmates  of  the  boarding 
house  were,  in  regard  to  Rosalie,  equally  and  in  the  same 
sense  fated.  Miss  Salmon  and  they  were  fated,  or  fatal, 
to  Rosalie,  in  the  sense  that  it  would  have  been  well  then 
for  Rosalie,  as  always  well  for  any  developing  young 
thing,  to  have  been  among  companions  who  drew  upon 
her  sympathies  and  called  for  her  consideration.  The 
contrary  was  here  presented  to  her.  She  was  ripe  to  be 
intolerant  for  she  was  very  full  of  purpose  and  purpose 
is  a  motive  power  of  much  impatience.  Miss  Salmon, 
who  would  have  made  a  saint  impatient,  made  Rosalie, 
who  was  not  a  saint,  very  impatient  and  the  virus  of  this 
impatience  was  that  very  soon  Rosalie  made  no  attempt 
to  conceal  it.  It  seemed  to  Rosalie  that  whenever  she 
projected  any  plan  to  Miss  Salmon  —  as  to  "  do  "  a  pit 
at  a  theatre  —  or  any  theory  —  as  that  men  and  not 
women  were  manifestly  the  cat  tribe  —  it  seemed  to  her 
that  Miss  Salmon  always  hummed  with  the  maddening 
humming  denotive  of  disapproval,  and  always  prefaced 
stupendously  stubborn  idiocy  with  the  "  Well,  now  "  and 
the  gulp  that  alone  were  sufficient  to  drive  enthusiasm 
crazy. 

"  Mmmmm  —  mm.  Mmm  —  mmmm  —  mm  —  mm," 
would  go  Miss  Salmon,  following  her  pince-nez  up  and 
down  the  little  bedroom.  And  then,  the  pince-nez  poised, 
"Well,  now"  (gulp). 

And  Rosalie  came  to  cry,  "  Oh,  never  mind.  Never 
mind,  for  goodness'  sake.  I  know  exactly  what  you're 
going  to  say  so  what  is  the  good  of  saying  it?  "  Miss 
Salmon  nevertheless  would  say  it,  in  full  measure,  pressed 


140  THIS  FREEDOM 

down  at  intervals  in  solid  lumps  with  reiterated  "  Well, 
now  "  (gulp).  And  then  Rosalie  would  hum  to  show  she 
was  not  listening  and  thus  in  time  to  the  position  that 
Rosalie,  beyond  the  ordinary  changes  of  everyday  con- 
versation, took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  Miss  Salmon 
but  busied  herself  in  their  room,  or  came  into  it  or  went 
out  of  it,  precisely  as  if  Miss  Salmon,  who  with  her  gulps, 
her  fussiness  and  her  balancing  was  very  much  there, 
was  in  fact  not  there  at  all.  When  Rosalie  for  the  weekly 
dinner  at  Aunt  Belle's  used  to  dress  in  the  evening  frock 
of  Laetitia's  given  her  for  the  purpose  by  Aunt  Belle, 
she  used,  at  first,  to  say  to  Miss  Salmon,  "  There,  how 
do  I  look,  Gertrude?  Can  you  see  that  mend  in  the 
lace?" 

"Well,  now  —  "  (gulp). 

Very  soon  she  was  dressing  (at  the  common  dressing 
table)  with  no  more  regard  for  Miss  Salmon  or  for  the 
continuous  humming  of  Miss  Salmon  (signification  of 
Miss  Salmon's  disapproval  of  the  monopolisation  of  the 
dressing  table)  than  if  Miss  Salmon  had  been  an  autom- 
aton wound  up  to  balance  a  pince-nez  around  the  room, 
to  hum,  and  at  intervals  to  gulp. 

This  was  a  small  thing,  but  it  was  an  important  small 
thing.  Rosalie  was  entirely  insensible  to  the  opinions 
and  the  existence  of  Miss  Salmon,  and  it  followed  that 
she  became  entirely  insensible  to  the  feelings  of  Miss 
Salmon.  To  begin  by  ignoring  a  person  with  whom  you 
are  in  daily  contact  is  certainly  to  end  by  not  caring  at 
all  what  happens  to  that  person.  It  was  the  misfortune 
of  Miss  Salmon  to  suffer  periodically  and  acutely  from 
biliousness  (which  she  called  neuralgia).  In  an  attack 
she  took  instantly  to  her  bed  and  lay  there  flat  on  her 
back,  absurdly  and  unnecessarily  poising  her  pince-nez, 
and  looking,  unquestionably,  very  unpleasant.  Rosalie, 
who  believed  that  Miss  Salmon  on  these  occasions  had 


THIS  FREEDOM  141 

overeaten  herself,  the  attacks  invariably  coinciding  with 
pork  in  winter  and  with  a  fruit  trifle  known  in  the  board- 
ing house  as  "  Kentish  Delight  "  in  the  summer,  of  both 
of  which  Miss  Salmon  was  avowedly  fond,  was  at  first 
warmly  sympathetic  and  attentive  on  their  occurrence, 
anointing  the  fevered  brows  with  eau-de-Cologne,  nip- 
ping the  unnecessary  pince-nez  off  the  pallid  nose,  dark- 
ening the  room,  and  stealing  about  on  tiptoe.  In  time  her 
attitude  came  to  be  expressed  by  her  reception  of  the 
sight  of  Miss  Salmon  prone,  stricken,  yellow,  pince-nez 
poising.     "  What,  again?  " 

"Well,  now "  (Gulp). 

But  Rosalie  would  be  gone. 

And  it  came  to  be  the  same  with  all  the  other  fellow 
inmates  of  the  boarding  house,  alike  the  men  and  the 
women.  Rosalie,  in  a  colloquialism  of  to-day  not  then 
coined,  "  had  no  use  for  them."  There  was  in  none  of 
them  anything  that  aroused  her  esteem ;  there  was  in  each 
of  them,  in  degree  greater  or  less,  much  that  provoked 
her  scorn.  The  result  was  as  resulted  from  Miss  Sal- 
mon —  she  did  not  bother  about  them ;  and  not  bothering 
about  them  she  suffered  an  inhibition  of  her  sympathies. 
To  repeat  the  thing  said,  her  environment  here  was,  as  it 
were,  fated  or  fatal.  In  her  eagerness  for  her  career  her 
generous  emotions  were  likely  to  be  laid  aside  and  to 
wither :  and  the  environment  of  the  boarding  house  in  no 
way  drew  upon  her  sympathies. 

This  was  not  good  for  Rosalie. 

Moreover,  the  community  of  the  boarding  house  served 
Rosalie  ill  on  another  point.  She  came  there  with  all 
those  grotesque  ideas  of  her  childhood  on  the  respective 
positions  of  men  and  women  precipitated  through  her 
older  years  to  the  perception  given  to  Keggo :  women 
were  this,  women  were  that;  in  their  commonest  char- 
acteristics they  contrasted  very  badly  with  men ;  men  did 


142  THIS  FREEDOM 

things  better  than  women;  they  had  by  far  the  better 
lot  in  Hfe  than  women;  unquestionably  men  were  the 
creatures;  of  course  —  off-handeclly  —  they  were  beasts. 
She  came  to  the  boarding  house  with  these  ideas  and  the 
boarding  house  presented  these  ideas  to  her  in  living  fact 
and  assured  her  in  her  ideas.  She  came  there  very  sus- 
ceptible to  the  qualities  she  believed  to  be  rooted  with 
their  sex  in  men  and  women  and  she  saw  those  qualities 
there  at  once.  The  boarding  house  might  have  been  all 
her  ideas  of  women  and  of  men  taken  away  by  an  artist 
and  put  into  an  exact  picture.  It  was  her  words  to  Keggo 
in  terms  of  actual  life.  Its  population,  little  varying,  was 
always  round  about  twenty;  the  proportion  in  sex  always 
in  the  region  of  fifteen  women  to  five  men.  The  figures 
were  always  constant  and  the  characters,  when  they 
changed,  seemed  always  to  Rosalie  to  be  constant;  the 
names  changed,  the  personalities  did  not  change.  Even 
the  faces  did  not  change :  there  are  certain  types  of  faces 
that  either  are  produced  by  permanent  residence  in  board- 
ing houses  or  that  go  instinctively  to  boarding  houses  for 
their  permanent  residence.  There  is  a  boarding-house 
mould.  There  would  always  be  two  husbands  with  wives 
and  three  men  without  wives.  The  men  were  never 
spoken  to  by  any  of  the  women  but  with  a  certain  arch- 
ness which  Rosalie  detested ;  and  they  never  spoke  to  the 
women  but  with  a  certain  boisterousness,  a  kind  of  rub- 
bing together  of  the  hands  and  a  "  Ha !  What  miserable 
weather,  Mrs.  Keeley.  How  does  it  suit  you?  Ha!" 
which  Rosalie  equally  detested.  It  was  as  though  the 
women,  leading  boarding-house  lives,  knew  that  the  men 
(who  were  never  in  to  lunch  and  sometimes  absent  from 
dinner)  did  not  lead  boarding-house  lives  but  secret,  dash- 
ing and  mysterious  lives ;  and  as  though  the  men  knew 
that  they  lived  secret,  dashing  and  mysterious  lives  but 
condescended  to  the  women  who  lived   only  boarding- 


THIS  FREEDOM  143 

house  lives;  and  the  archness  on  the  one  side  and  the 
boisterousness  on  the  other  imphed  tribute  and  worthi- 
ness of  tribute.     This  implication  Rosalie  also  detested. 

Men  —  as  she  now  saw  men  and  women  —  she  dis- 
missed; generally  as  "  of  course  they're  beasts,"  severally 
and  in  the  groups  to  which  they  belonged,  as  cats  —  of 
the  cat  tribe  —  tame  cats,  wild  cats,  Cheshire  cats,  tom- 
cats and  stray  cats.  But  she  dismissed  them.  That  was 
her  attitude,  as  it  developed,  towards  men.  They  had 
been,  in  her  regard,  owners  of  the  earth,  possessing  and 
having  dominion  over  the  round  world  and  all  that  therein 
is,  as  a  stage  magician  owns  and  dominates  his  stage; 
they  had  next  been  wonderful  things  but  apt  to  be 
troublesome  and  braggart  things  whose  braggadocio 
caused  you  to  blink  and  have  a  funny  feeling;  they  had 
then  been  sinister  and  frightening  things  that  caused  poor 
Anna  to  say  it  was  hard  for  women;  they  became,  at 
last,  creatures  that  had  the  best  of  life,  that  is  to  say  the 
better  time  in  life,  not  because  they  merited  it,  but  be- 
cause it  was  theirs  by  tradition  and  tliey  stepped  into  it, 
or  were  put  into  it,  as  naturally  as  a  man  child  is  put 
into  trousers;  and  they  had,  when  all  was  reckoned  up, 
the  better  qualities  —  largeness,  tolerance,  directness,  ex- 
plosiveness  (as  opposed  to  smouldering-ness)  — not,  Ro- 
salie thought,  because  they  were  males,  but  because  they 
had  the  position  that  males  have,  just  as  by  the  habit  of 
command  is  given  to  small  boys  in  the  Navy  and  very 
young  men  in  the  Army  the  air  and  the  poise  of  com- 
mand. 

Yes,  certainly  men  were,  as  they  had  always  been,  the 
creatures;  but  the  eyes  that  formerly  saw  them  as  ma- 
gicians, as  by  a  savage  is  seen  only  the  mystery  of  the 
moving  hands,  the  tick,  and  the  strike  of  a  clock,  now 
looked  inside  the  case  and  saw  the  works.  No  mystery. 
No  exclusiveness  of  natural  power.     Nothing  abnormal. 


144  THIS  FREEDOM 

Men,  on  their  estimable  qualities  and  position,  were  what 
they  were  merely  because,  as  the  works  of  a  watch,  thus 
and  thus  the  wheels  were  made  to  go  round.  Easy. 
Nothing  in  it.  On  the  contrary.  On  the  contrary,  men 
were  the  more  despicable  in  that,  dowered  as  by  tradition 
they  were  dowered,  they  yet  were  —  what  they  were ! 
The  eyes  that  had  been  caused  to  blink  by  Robert  blow- 
ing smoke  through  his  nose  and  by  Harold  pulling  up 
his  collar  and  speaking  with  a  "  haw !  "  sound,  blinked 
from  a  contempt  yet  more  profound  (because  now  known 
for  contempt)  at  the  exhibition,  seen  all  about  her,  of 
men's  unlovely  side.  And  she  dismissed  them.  They  did 
not  attract  her  in  the  smallest  degree.  All  that  they  had 
in  them  to  esteem,  whether  of  qualities  or  of  position, 
they  had  —  here  was  the  parallel  —  in  common  with 
drones  in  a  hive.  They  had  the  best  of  everything;  they 
were  blundering,  blustering,  noisy,  careless,  buccaneering 
owners  of  the  world,  and  to  her  —  as  all  the  roystering 
swarm  to  any  individual  worker  bee  —  to  her,  negligible: 
she  was  a  worker  bee,  busy,  purposeful. 

There  is  a  special  function  belonging  to  drones  in  a 
hive.  That  special  function  of  men  in  regard  to  women 
was  repellant  to  Rosalie.  All  that  pertained  to  it  was  re- 
pulsive to  her.  She  loathed  to  think  of  men  in  that  ca- 
pacity and  she  loathed  to  see  women  ensnared  in  that  re- 
gard by  men.  Beautiful  cousin  Laetitia  and  the  "  good 
match  "  that  obviously  had  been  found  for  her :  she  de- 
tested seeing  those  two  together :  it  made  her  feel  sick. 

Men!  By  this  and  by  "that  in  passage  of  time  she  was 
in  contact  with  a  good  number  and  a  good  variety  of 
men.  There  was  the  frequently  changing  male  contribu- 
tion to  the  boarding-house  community ;  there  were  clients 
met  in  the  development  of  her  work  at  Simcox's;  there 
were  the  men  of  the  circle  of  Uncle  Pyke  Pounce ;  there 
were  the  men  of  the  circle  of  cousin  Laetitia,  brought  to 


THIS  FREEDOM  145 

the  little  Saturday-dinner  parties.  A  very  fair  average, 
a  rather  wider  than  the  normal  average  of  contact  with 
men ;  and  she  dismissed  them.  They  had  not  any  attrac- 
tion for  her  at  all.  If,  rarely,  she  met  one  whose  super- 
ficial points  were  superficially  attractive,  his  contribution 
to  her  attitude  to  men  was  to  make  her  blink  (inwardly) 
the  more,  albeit  on  a  dift'erent  note.  That  one  so  excep- 
tionally dowered  should  find  pleasure  in,  for  instance, 
dalliance  of  sex!  Contemptible!  Oh,  sickening  and  con- 
temptible !  One  Harry  Occleve,  of  Laetitia's  circle,  so 
obviously  "  the  good  match,"  was  outstandingly  such  a 
case.  It  was  thought  upon  him,  scornful  and  disgusted 
thought,  that  made  her,  walking  back  from  one  of  the 
Saturday-evening  parties  —  he  was  always  there  —  ar- 
range her  experiences  with  men  in  that  analogy  between 
men  and  cats  which,  as  related,  had  been  delivered  to 
Miss  Salmon. 

Like  a  tame  cat!  She  never  had  met  a  man  she  de- 
spised so  much.  You'd  think  a  man  like  that  couldn't 
help  but  be  above  such  things  as  Cousin  Laetitia  and  Aunt 
Belle  made  of  him.  "  Occleve."  The  very  name  that  he 
owned  had  a  nice  sound;  and  he  was  brilliantly  clever 
and  looked  brilliantly  clever.  He  was  a  barrister  and 
Aunt  Belle,  who  was  forever  talking  about  him,  had  said 
that  evening,  just  before  his  arrival,  that  some  famous 
counsel  had  declared  of  him  that  he  was  unquestionably 
the  most  brilliant  of  the  young  men  of  the  day  at  the 
Bar.  So  he  was  talented,  had  a  great  future  before  him, 
had  a  strong,  most  taking  presence,  a  commanding  air,  a 
voice  of  uncommon  charm  —  and  was  in  bonds  to  Lae- 
titia !  Looked  sickly  at  her !  Mouthed  fatuous  nothings 
with  her !  Was  obviously  marked  down  to  be  that  "  good 
match  "  that  Laetitia  was  to  make ;  and  was  content,  was 
eager,  to  be  the  tame  cat  of  her  languishing  glances  and  of 
Aunt  Belle's  excessive  gushings!     Was  to  be  seen  in  a 


146  THIS  FREEDOM 

future  not  distant  mated  with  Laetitia  and  sharing  with 
her  an  atmosphere  of  milk  and  silk  and  babies  and  kisses! 
Tame  cat !  What  an  end  to  which  to  bring  such  quahties ! 
What  a  desecration  of  such  quahties  to  set  them  to  win 
such  an  end !    Tame  cat ! 

But  they  all  were  cats  of  one  kind  or  another.  Yes, 
men  are  of  the  cat  tribe !  Tabby  cats  —  the  soft,  fattish 
kind,  without  any  manlike  qualities,  that  seemed  to  be  by 
far  the  greater  proportion  of  all  the  men  one  saw  about 
in  buses  and  in  the  streets  and  met  in  business;  tabby 
cats  —  sloppy,  old-womanish  creatures.  Cheshire  cats  — 
the  kind  that  grinned  out  of  vacuous  minds  and  that 
never  could  speak  to  a  woman  without  grinning ;  the  un- 
attached men  at  the  boarding  house  invariably  were  of 
the  Cheshire-cat  cats.  Tomcats  —  the  beastly  ones  with 
lecherous  eyes  that  looked  at  you.  "  Of  course  they're 
beasts."  It  had  been  a  large  experience  of  the  tomcat 
cats  that  had  made  her  add  that  final  summary  of  men  to 
Keggo.  The  Bashibazook,  once  or  twice  encountered  in 
her  last  terms  at  the  Sultana's,  though  never  spoken  with, 
had  looked  at  her  in  a  horrible  way,  not  understood,  but 
felt  to  be  frightening  and  horrible;  Mr.  Ponders,  on  a 
dreadful  occasion  after  handing  over  the  medicine  for 
Miss  Keggs,  had  horribly  said,  "  Well,  now,  wouldn't  a 
kiss  be  nice?  I  think  a  nice  kiss  would  be  very  nice." 
She  had  m.anaged  to  get  away  without  being  touched ;  the 
nausea  in  her  eyes  perhaps  had  frightened  him.  It  was 
nausea  she  felt,  not  fear,  a  horrible  physical  sickness;  and 
finally  to  round  off  the  "  of  course  they're  beasts  "  of 
men  as  then  experienced  and  now  to  fill  up  the  schedule 
of  tomcat  cats  the  friends  of  Uncle  Pyke  Pounce's  circle 
and  Uncle  Pyke  Pounce  himself  and  the  men  like  the  men 
of  his  circle  —  tomcats  something  past  their  prime  as 
lechers  (but  at  a  hint  only  more  lecherous  for  that)  but 
in  the  full  prime  of  their  beastliness  as  guzzlers,  who  with 


THIS  FREEDOM  147 

guzzle  eyes  eyed  their  food.  She  had  come  across  a  word 
in  Carlyle's  "  French  Revolution  "  that  instantly  brought 
Uncle  Pyke  Pounce  and  his  friends  to  her  mind  and  that 
always  thereafter  she  applied  to  the  elderly  tomcat  en- 
countered or  passed  in  the  street —  "  atrabilious."  Atra- 
bilious !  The  very  word !  She  looked  it  up  in  the  dic- 
tionary, was  disappointed  to  find  it  did  not  mean  exactly 
what  she  thought  it  meant,  but  gave  it  her  own  meaning, 
and  applied  it  to  them.  It  sounded  like  them.  They  had 
small  beady  eyes,  set  in  yellow ;  no  apparent  eyelids  either 
above  or  below,  just  an  unblinking  eye  set  in  a  puffy  face 
like  a  currant  in  a  slab  of  cold  pudding  that  gloated  or 
glared  at  everything  and  everybody  as  if  it  was  a  thing 
to  be  devoured ;  guzzlers  who  gloated  upon  their  food  and 
wallowed  in  their  soup,  always  with  little  streaks  of  red 
veins  and  blue  veins  in  their  faces.  Atrabilious!  Tom- 
cats! 

Wild  cats  —  the  roamers,  the  untamed  ones,  the  ones 
with  cruel  and  with  wicked  faces  that  made  you  not  sick, 
but  frightened;  mostly  they  were  dressed  in  rough 
clothes,  men  hanging  about  the  streets  who  patently  were 
thieves  or  worse,  who  looked  at  you  and  at  once  looked 
all  around  as  if  to  see  if  any  were  about  that  might  pro- 
tect you;  but  often  dressed  in  gentle  dress  and  then  with 
the  cruel  and  wicked  look  more  cruel  and  more  wicked, 
to  make  your  shudder  to  think  of  a  woman  having  to 
belong  to  that. 

Stray  cats  —  on  the  whole  the  only  really  bearable 
ones;  the  lonely  ones  that  seemed  to  have  lost  something 
or  to  be  lost,  that  seemed  to  need  looking  after,  that  made 
you  have  a  funny  tender  feeling  towards  them,  a  wanting 
as  it  were  to  pick  them  up  and  carry  them  home  and  be 
sharp  with  them  because  they  couldn't  take  care  of  them- 
selves, and  to  be  kind  to  them  also  because  they  couldn't 


148  THIS  FREEDOM 

take  care  of  themselves;  yes,  the  only  bearable  ones:  Mr, 
Simcox  was  precisely  one. 

All  cats,  of  the  cat  tribe.  There  wasn't  one  you  couldn't 
place.  There  wasn't  one,  save  dear  little  Mr.  Simcox  and 
the  stray  cat  ones  you  sometimes  saw,  that  was  not  in 
some  trait  contemptible.  The  only  thing  to  be  said  for 
them  was  that  it  was  their  nature.  They  were  created 
like  that.  You  just  shrugged  your  shoulders  at  them  and 
let  them  go  at  that,  negligible  entities.  Active  disgust 
was  only  felt  of  them  when  one  of  their  traits  was  mani- 
fested directly  towards  you;  or,  much  more,  when  the 
sight  was  given  of  such  a  one  as  this  Harry  Occleve 
making  such  an  exhibition  of  himself  and  enjoying  it, 
delighting  in  it,  asking  nothing  better  than  to  be  phi- 
landering with  Laetitia,  or  escorting  Laetitia,  or  gazing 
at  Laetitia.  That  did  make  you  angry  enough  with  a 
man  to  hate  a  man.  It  was  like  seeing  a  good  book  —  as 
it  might  be  "  Lombard  Street  "  —  used  to  prop  a  table 
leg;  or  a  jolly  dog — as  the  dearest  Scotch  terrier  once 
brought  to  the  boarding  house  —  led  for  a  walk  on  a 
leash  by  an  old  maiden  mistress  and  wearing  a  lapdog's 
flannel  coat  with  ribbon  bows  at  the  corner.  Her  aver- 
sion to  Harry  Occleve  was  such  that,  in  their  rare  pas- 
sages together,  she  was  almost  openly  rude  to  him.  It 
seemed  there  was  even  no  physical  quality  he  had  but  he 
used  it  to  abase  himself  or  to  make  an  exhibition  of  him- 
self. He  had  noticeably  long,  strong-looking  arms,  but 
the  sickening  thing  to  see  him  once  using  those  arms  to 
hold  silk  for  Laetitia  while  she  wound  it!  He  had  a 
striking  face  that  she  named,  from  a  line  in  Browning, 
a  "  marching  "  face  —  "  one  who  never  turned  his  back 
but  marched  breast  forward"  —  but  to  see  that  face 
bent  fatuously  towards  Laetitia!  There  radiated  from 
the  corners  of  his  eyes  towards  his  temples  those  little 
lines  that  sailors  often  have,  "  horizon  tracks,"  she  called 


THIS  FREEDOM  149 

them;  but  to  see  them  deeply  marked  while  he  mouthed 
earnest  nothings  with  Laetitia!  There  was  an  odd,  nice 
smell  about  him,  of  peat,  of  tobacco,  of  soap,  of  heather 
with  the  wund  across  it,  of  things  like  that  most  agreeably 
mixed,  and  actually  she  had  heard  Laetitia  say  to  him  in 
the  babyish  way  she  spoke  to  him,  "  You  smoke  too  much. 
You  do."  And  he,  like  a  moon  calf:  "Oh,  you're  not 
going  to  ask  me  to  give  up  smoking,  are  you?  "  And  she 
with  a  trailing  eye  and  hint  of  a  blush,  "  Perhaps  I  shall 
—  someday."  And  he  —  a  sigh!  Positively  a  love-sick 
sigh  straight  out  of  a  novel!  Ah,  positively  she  could 
detest  the  man !  She  came  to  discover  it  as  an  odd  thing 
that,  while  commonly  she  was  entirely  indifferent  to  men, 
always  after  a  Saturday  meeting  with  Laetitia's  Harry 
she  had  for  quite  a  day  or  two  an  active  detestation  of 
them. 

But  it  was  the  women  at  the  boarding  house  —  to  in- 
stance the  boarding  house  —  the  fifteen  women,  the  im- 
mense, straggling  army  of  women  as  they  looked  to  be; 
when  they  came  trooping  in  to  dinner  or  went  trailing  out 
again,  that  had  Rosalie's  sharpest  observation  and  that 
best  pointed  her  youthful  estimates.  Unlike  men  who 
had  fallen  woefully  from  her  childhood  estimate  of  them, 
the  women  maintained  and  intensified  her  early  estimate 
of  women.  The  women  in  the  boarding  house  showed 
Rosalie  what  women  come  to.  A  few  were  emphatically 
old;  the  rest,  wath  the  single  exception  of  Miss  Salmon, 
were  emphatically  not  old;  on  the  other  hand  they  were 
emphatically  not  young.  They  were  at  pains  to  let  you 
see  they  were  not  old  and  the  pains  they  were  at  rather 
dreadfully  (to  Rosalie)  emphasised  the  fact  that  they 
were  not  young.  The  thing  about  them,  the  warning,  the 
proof  that  they  exhibited  of  all  Rosalie's  ideas  about  the 
inferiority  of  women,  was  that  they  were,  in  her  phrase, 


150  THIS  FREEDOM 

derelicts  —  not  wanted;  abandoned;  homeless;  or  they 
would  not  be  here.  Yes,  derelict;  and  what  was  worse, 
derelict  not  in  the  sense  of  desuetude  of  powers  or  of 
powers  outworn,  but  with  the  suggestion  of  never  having 
had  any  powers,  of  having  been  always  the  mere  vessels 
of  another's  powers  —  some  man's;  and  now,  with  that 
power  withdrawn  —  the  man,  whether  father,  brother, 
lover  or  husband,  gone  —  derelict  as  a  ship,  abandoned 
of  crew,  rudderless  and  dismasted,  is  derelict;  as  an  ob- 
scure habitation,  cold  of  hearth,  crazy  of  walls,  aban- 
doned to  decay,  is  derelict.  She  summed  them  all  up  as 
having  arrived  at  what  they  were  precisely  because  in 
their  earlier  years  they  had  been  what  in  her  childhood 
she  had  supposed  women  to  be :  inferior  creatures  at  the 
disposal  and  for  the  benefit  and  service  of  men.  What  a 
warning  never  to  be  that !  There  they  were  —  manless. 
And  therefore  derelict.  And  because  derelict  for  such 
a  reason,  therefore  testimony  to  a  social  condition  that 
was  abominable,  and  because  seen  to  be  abominable  never, 
never  herself  should  enfold.  Never!  Manless.  Hus- 
bandless.  There  they  were,  the  straggling  mob  of  them, 
—  deserted  by  husbands,  semi-detached  from  husbands, 
relict  of  husbands  fallen  out  with  a  stitch  in  the  side  in 
the  race  for  husbands.     Urh! 

She  was  very  young,  Rosalie. 

"  Despised  and  rejected  of  men,"  she  said  to  Miss 
Salmon,  holding  forth  in  their  bedroom  on  her  subject. 
"  That's  what  I  call  them.  Despised  and  rejected  of  men. 
Oh,  don't  hum  louder  than  ever.  It's  not  irreverent  to 
say  that.  It  describes  a  condition,  that's  all,  and  I'm  us- 
ing it  because  it  describes  this  condition,  their  condition, 
exactly.  It  does.  You  can  hum;  but  it  does.  They've 
never  done  anything,  they've  never  meant  to  do  anything, 
they've  never  tried  to  do  anything  except  hang  round 
after  some  man.     That's  all.     They've  either  caught  him 


THIS  FREEDOM  151 

and  now  lost  him ;  or  they've  missed  him  and  now  go  on 
missing  him.  That's  their  lives.  That's  nearly  any 
woman's  Ufe.  It's  not  going  to  be  mine.  If  anything 
were  wanted  to  make  the  whole  idea  of  marriage  and  all 
that  repulsive  to  me  —  and  nothing  is  wanted  —  that 
would.  Despised  and  rejected  of  men!  I  used  to  think 
and  to  say  I  intended  to  be  like  a  man  and  to  do  a  man's 
work  and  have  a  man's  share.  I  tell  you  that  even  getting 
so  dose  to  a  man  as  that  —  I  mean  as  close  as  intentional 
emulation  of  him  —  even  getting  as  close  as  that  makes 
me  feel  sick  now.  It's  my  own  life  I'm  going  to  have, 
my  own  place,  my  own  share;  not  modelled  on  any  one 
else's.  If  it  were  conceivable  that  I  ever  met  a  man  I 
cared  tuppence  about  —  but  it  isn't  conceivable;  that's  a 
quality  that's  been  left  clean  out  of  me,  thank  goodness  — 
but  if  it  were  conceivable,  what  I'd  offer  would  be  just 
to  share ;  to  go  on  living  my  own  way  and  he  his  — 
Oh,  your  humming!  I  mean  after  marriage,  of  course; 
I  think  this  free-love  business  they  talk  about  is  even 
more  detestable  than  the  lawful  kind  —  just  animalism. 
That's  all  I'd  do.  Me  my  life;  he  his  life;  meeting,  as 
equals,  when  it  was  convenient  to  meet.  I'd  like  to  bring^ 
all  these  poets  and  people  who  write  about  love  into  our 
dining-room  to  see  those  people.     That'd  teach  them ! 

Man's  love  is  of  his  life  a  thing  apart; 
'Tis  woman's  whole  existence. 

What  an  existence !  " 

"Well,  now  —  "  (gulp). 


CHAPTER  VII 

"You  have  pretended  to  dislike  and  to  despise  men,  but 
it  was  a  pretence  to  deceive  me  and  you  aie  a  liar." 

This  was  the  astounding  opening  of  an  astounding 
letter,  pages  and  pages,  to  Rosalie  from  Miss  Salmon. 
Pages  and  pages,  having  the  appearance,  each  one,  of  a 
battlefield  or  of  a  riot :  a  welter  of  thick,  black  under- 
scores strewn  about  like  coffins  or  like  corpses,  and  a 
bristling  pin-cushionful  (black  pins)  of  notes  of  ex- 
clamation leaping  about  like  war-dancing  Zulus  or  stag- 
gering about  like  drunken  or  like  wounded  men.  A 
welter  you  had  to  pick  your  way  through  with  epithets 
rushing  against  you  at  every  step  like  units  of  a  surging 
mob  hounding  and  charging  against  an  unfortunate  pe- 
destrian caught  in  the  trouble. 

Miss  Salmon  had  two  months  before  introduced  "  a 
gentleman  friend  "  to  the  boarding  house.  He  was  a 
clerk  in  some  big  business  firm.  His  name  was  Upsmith 
and  he  bore  upon  a  fattish  face  a  troubled,  beseeching 
look,  rather  as  though  something  internal  and  not  to  be 
mentioned  was  severely  incommoding  him  and  might  at 
any  moment  become  acute.  Miss  Salmon  called  him 
Boo,  which  Rosalie  considered  grotesque  but  not  unsuit- 
able, and  it  was  communicated  to  the  boarding  house  that 
the  twain  were  at  a  mysterious  point  of  affinity  called, 
not  an  engagement,  but  an  understanding. 

Rosalie  had  by  this  time  taken  the  second  step  in  her 
upward  progression  of  comfort  in  the  boarding  house. 
She  had  moved  into  a  separate  room,  leaving  Miss  Sal- 
mon to  become  half  of  another  two  friends  as  one,  and 


THIS  FREEDOM  153 

she  and  Miss  Salmon  therefore  saw  much  less  of  each 
other.  But  RosaHe  still  sat  at  the  same  table  as  Miss 
Salmon  at  dinner  and  there  Mr.  Upsmith  joined  them. 

The  thing  may  be  hurried  along  to  its  astounding  con- 
clusion in  the  astounding  letter.  It  was  not  in  itself 
an  event  of  any  sort  of  moment  to  Rosalie.  She  was  in 
no  way  outraged  by  being  called  a  liar.  There  is  no 
hurt  at  all  in  being  called  a  liar  when  you  know  you  are 
not  a  liar.  The  accusation  has  sting  only  if  you  are  a 
liar;  and  indeed  it  is  comforting  evidence  of  some  inner 
self  within  us  that  only  when  we  have  ourselves  debased 
that  inner  self  become  we  open  to  wounds  from  without. 
That  citadel  is  never  taken  by  storm;  only  by  treachery. 
No,  the  significance  of  the  astounding  letter  reposed  in 
the  fact  that  her  reception  of  it  opened  to  Rosalie  a  glimpse 
of  a  quality  rising  beneath  her  to  carry  her  forward  as 
a  wave  beneath  a  swimmer.  It  has  been  perceived  in  her 
but  Rosalie  had  not  perceived  it. 

A  great  triumph  and  a  great  happiness  swelled  within 
Miss  Salmon  with  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Upsmith  and  with 
the  circulation  about  the  boarding  house  that  there  was 
an  understanding  between  herself  and  Mr.  Upsmith. 
Her  humming  took  on  a  loud,  defiant  quality,  as  of  tri- 
umph ;  she  pursued  her  pince-nez  with  a  certain  eagerness, 
as  of  confidence  of  balance  and  certitude  of  capture.  Her 
note  and  her  air  seemed  to  say  that  she  was  Boo's  and 
Boo  hers  and  she  gloried  in  it  with  that  exalted  and  yet 
something  fearful  glory  that  is  to  be  seen,  pathetically,  on 
the  faces  of  very  plain  young  women,  or  of  distinctly 
ageing  young  women,  who  have  got  a  Boo  but  for  whom 
the  Boos  of  this  world  are  elusive  to  capture  and  slip- 
pery to  hold.  The  look  is  to  be  seen  a  dozen  times  on 
any  Sunday  afternoon  when  the  young  couples  are  out. 

At  dinner  time  Miss  Salmon  would  talk  much  to  Boo 
in  whispers  and  then  would  look  up  and  hum  across  at 


154  THIS  FREEDOM 

Rosalie  in  triumph,  as  of  one  that  knew  things  that  Rosa- 
He  could  not  know  and  that  had  a  thing  that  Rosalie  did 
not  possess.     Mr.  Upsmith  looked  also  much  at  Rosalie, 
in  no  triumph,  but  in  an  apparent  great  excess  of  his 
unfortunate    complaint.      He    stared,    troubled    and   be- 
seeching, at  her  at  meals,  and  he  stared,  troubled  and 
beseeching,  at  her  when  he  encountered  her  away  from 
meals.     The  longer  he  sojourned  in  the  boarding  house 
the  more  troubled  and  beseeching,   when   Rosalie  hap- 
pened to  notice  him,  did  his  fattish  countenance  appear 
to  become.     That  was  all.     There  scarcely  ever  was  ex- 
changed  between   thtm   even    the   courtesies   customary 
between  dwellers  beneath  the  same  roof ;  they  never,  that 
Rosalie  could  remember,  were  a  minute  alone  together 
and  yet  on  a  day  in  an  August,  Miss  Salmon  a  week  away 
on  a  month  at  the  seaside  with  the  family  to  which  she 
was  nursery  governess,   Rosalie  was  being  told   in  the 
violent  opening  sentence  of  one  letter  that  she  had  pre- 
tended to  despise  and  dislike  men  but  had  only  done  it 
to  deceive  Miss  Salmon  and  was  a  liar;  and  in  the  impas- 
sioned sentences  of  another  which  had  been  enclosed  and 
had  fallen  and  to  which  bewildered  she  stooped  and  then 
read,  that  the  heart  of  Boo  was  at  her  feet  ("  your  proud, 
sweet  little  feet  that  I  would  kiss  in  my  adorance  ")  that 
he  had  adored  her  ever  .since  he  had  first  set  eyes  on  her, 
that  he  treasured  "  like  pearls  before  swine  "  every  en- 
couragement she  had  given  him   from  her  divine  eyes 
and  from  her  proud  little  lips,  that  he  had  had  no  sleep 
for  a  fortnight  and  felt  he  would  go  mad  unless  he  wrote 
these    few   lines    (nine   pages),    that   he   earned    "good 
money,"  and  that  he  was,  in  conclusion,  to  which  Rosalie 
amazedly  skipped,  "  ever  and  ever  and  imperishably  al- 
ways her  imperishably  adoring  Boo." 
•    Two  days  previously  Rosalie  had  received,  but  not  read, 
another  slightly  mysterious  letter.     It  had  been  in  her 


THIS  FREEDOM  155 

receptacle  in  the  letter  rack  in  the  hall,  addressed  to  her 
in  an  unfamiliar  writing  and  deposited  by  hand,  not 
through  the  post.  It  had  begun  "  Dear  Miss  Salmon,  re 
our  friendship  I  have  to  inform  you  —  "  Rosalie  had 
turned  to  the  end,  "  B.  Upsmith."  She  had  replaced  it 
in  its  envelope,  written  upon  the  envelope,  "  This  is  evi- 
dently for  you,  but  addressed  to  me,  as  you  see  —  R." 
and  had  placed  it  in  another  stamped  wrapper  to  be  for- 
warded by  Miss  Kentish.  She  had  only  thought  of  it 
as  in  funny  style  for  a  love  letter,  proper  no  doubt  to  the 
niceties  of  an  "  understanding."  And  what  had  hap- 
pened was  that  the  vile,  egregious,  and  infamous  Boo, 
writing  to  break  off  one  understanding  and  establish  an- 
other, had  placed  them  in  the  wrong  envelopes.  The  out- 
pourings of  his  bursting  heart  to  Rosalie  had  been  re- 
ceived by  Miss  Salmon;  the  information  "  re  our  friend- 
ship "  had  gone  to  Rosalie. 

Of  itself,  as  has  been  said  the  whole  incident  was  noth- 
ing at  all  in  the  life  of  Rosalie.  It  came  with  the  crash, 
but  only  startling  and  quite  harmless  crash,  of  an  un- 
expected clap  of  thunder,  and  it  passed  as  completely  and 
as  passively,  doing  no  damage,  leaving  no  mark.  Miss 
Salmon  never  returned  to  the  boarding  house;  the  vile, 
egregious  and  infamous  Boo  haply  incisively  informed 
by  Miss  Salmon  of  what  he  had  done,  incontinently,  and 
without  speech  to  Rosalie,  fled  from  the  boarding  house. 
They  were  gone,  they  were  nothing  to  Rosalie ;  the  cor- 
respondence was  destroyed,  it  was  nothing  to  Rosalie. 

But  the  significance  of  the  matter  was  here.  There 
was  in  Miss  Salmon's  letter  to  Rosalie  one  paragraph 
that  Rosalie  read  a  second  time.  She  had  received  the 
letter  when  coming  in  just  before  dinner.  Not  at  all 
injured  nor  in  any  way  discommoded  by  the  hurtling  epi- 
thets, the  terrific  underscores  intended  to  be  as  bludgeons, 
or  the  leaping  exclamatory  notes  set  there  for  stabs,  she 


j56  THIS  FREEDOM 

had  put  the  thing  away  in  a  drawer  and  gone  down  to 
her  meal.  The  passage  alluded  to  came  more  than  once 
into  her  mind.  When  she  was  about  to  get  into  bed  that 
night  she  destroyed  the  letter,  first  reading  that  paragraph, 
and  only  that,  again.  Sole  in  the  violent  welter  of  those 
sheets  it  had  no  underscores  nor  any  exclamations.  It 
was  added  as  a  postscript.     It  said: 

"  Well,  now ;  Boo  and  I  met  the  first  time  in  a  crowd 
watching  a  horse  that  had  fallen  down.  It  kicked  and  I 
stepped  back  quickly  and  trod  on  his  foot.  It  made  him 
put  his  hands  on  my  arms  and  I  looked  around  to  apolo- 
gise and  there  was  his  dear  face  smiling  at  me,  although 
in  great  pain,  for  I  had  trodden  on  a  corn  he  has ;  and  I 
knew  at  once  it  was  the  face  I  had  looked  for  and  longed 
for  all  my  life  and  had  found  at  last;  and  I  loved  him 
from  the  first  and  we  went  out  of  the  crowd  and  talked. 
Well,  now ;  I  clung  to  him  in  all  our  happy,  happy  months 
together,  in  a  way  you  can  never  understand,  because  I 
loved  him,  and  because  I  am  not  the  sort  that  men  like 
because  I  am  only  plain,  and  I  knew  that  if  ever  he  left 
me  I  could  never  get  another.  Well,  now ;  you  have  taken 
him  away  from  me.  You  could  get  dozens  and  dozens  of 
men  to  love  you,  but  you  have  taken  mine,  and  I  never, 
never  can  get  another." 

The  thoughts  of  Rosalie,  not  sequent,  but  going  about 
and  amounting  thusly,  were  thus :  "  That  is  very  pa- 
thetic. That  is  horribly  sad  and  pathetic.  Coming  at 
the  end  like  that  and  without  any  strokes  and  flourishes, 
it  is  as  if  she  was  exhausted  of  her  hate  and  rage  and 
just  put  out  an  utterly  tired  hand  and  set  this  here  like 
a  sigh.  That's  pathetic,  the  mere  look  of  it  and  that 
thought  of  it.  And  then  what  she  says.  The  dreadfully 
simple  naivete  of  the  beginning  of  it.  Staring  at  a  fallen 
horse  in  the  street.  It's  just  where  they  would  be,  both 
of  them.     They'd  stand  there  for  hours  and  just  stare 


THIS  FREEDOM  157 

and  stare.  And  then  she  steps  back  on  his  foot  and  there's 
'his  dear  face'  smiling  at  her;  ah,  it's  pathetic,  it's 
poignant!  I  can  see  it  absolutely.  Yes,  I  can.  As  if 
I  were  in  the  crowd  around  the  horse,  watching  them. 
There  they  are,  the  horse  between  us,  and  all  the  doltish, 
staring  faces  round  about;  and  their  two  dull  and  stupid 
faces ;  and  as  their  eyes  meet  that  sudden  look  upon  their 
foolish  faces,  as  of  irradiation  out  of  heaven,  that  would 
make  a  clown's  face  beautiful  and  cause  the  hardest  heart 
to  twist.  But  it  doesn't  cause  mine  to  twist.  That's  the 
odd  thing.  I  remember  perfectly  when  a  thing  like  that 
would  have  given  me  a  little  blinky  kind  of  feeling.  I've 
always  been  awfully  quick  to  notice  things  like  that.  I've 
often  seen  them.  Quite  recently,  so  little,  I  believe,  as 
a  year  ago,  things  like  that,  things  like  this,  would  have 
moved  me  a  lot.  They  somehow  do  not  now.  That 
frightful  ending  of  hers :  '  You  could  get  dozens  and 
dozens  of  men  to  love  you,  but  you  have  taken  mine  and 
I  can  never,  never  get  another.'  That  is  most  terribly 
pathetic.  I  think  that  is  the  most  poignant  thing  I  have 
ever  heard.  Well,  I  can  realise  its  utter  pathos;  I  can 
realise  it  but  I  cannot  feel  it.  It  does  not  move  me. 
'  And  I  never,  never  can  get  another.'  It's  frightful. 
I  could  cry.  But  I  do  not  a  bit  want  to  cry.  I  must 
have  somehow  changed.  I  am  not  a  bit  sorry  if  I  have 
changed.  I  would  be  sorry  to  go  back  and  be  as,  if 
I  have  changed,  I  must  have  been  —  sentimental.  I 
have  changed.  I  believe  I  can  look  back  and  see  it. 
About  the  time  I  left  the  Sultana's,  mother's  letters,  and 
keeping  them  and  answering  them,  began  to  be  —  yes 
they  did  begin  to  be  a  little  tiny  bit  of  a  nuisance  to  me. 
Yes,  it  was  beginning  then,  this.  And  I  expect  earlier,  if 
I  worked  it  out.  There's  nothing  in  it  to  regret.  It's 
just  a  growing  out  of  a  thing.  It's  not,  when  I  see  a 
thing  that's  pathetic,  that  I've  grown  blunt  or  blind  and 


158  THIS  FREEDOM 

can't  see  it  for  pathetic.  It's  just — I  know  what  it  is 
—  it's  just  that  it  doesn't  appeal  to  me  in  the  same  way. 
It's  Hke  seeing  a  dish  of  most  tempting  food  in  front  of 
you,  not  that  I  ever  remember  my  mouth,  as  they  say, 
watering  at  anything ;  but  say  strawberries  and  cream  — 
I'm  fond  of  strawberries  and  cream  —  it's  hke  seeing  a 
dish  of  strawberries  and  cream  in  front  of  you,  and  know- 
ing it's  good  and  knowing  it's  dehcious,  and  knowing 
you're  awfully  fond  of  it  —  and  just  not  being  hungry; 
turning  away  and  leaving  it  there,  not  because  it's  not 
everything  that  it  ought  to  be,  but  just  because  —  you 
don't  want  it.  I  should  say  that's  how  it  is  with  me  about 
these  —  these  pathetic  things.  I  know  they're  pathetic. 
I  don't  want  them." 

That  is  how  it  was,  how  it  had  become,  with  Rosalie. 
That  was  just  her  first  recognition  of  it,  as  the  swimmer, 
intent  on  his  own  making  of  his  progression,  recognises 
not,  till  he  has  been  borne  some  distance  by  it,  the  cur- 
rent that  also  is  carrying  him  along. 

Visits  home  to  the  Rectory  were  further  manifesta- 
tions to  her  of  this  arising  symptom. 

There  were  appeals  that  should  have  arisen  to  her  out 
of  her  home ;  and  they  did  arise ;  and  she  recognised  them  ; 
but  they  did  not  appeal  to  her  —  not  in  the  old  way. 
She  went  home  very  rarely  for  occasional  week-ends, 
always  for  her  annual  holidays,  always  for  Christ- 
mas; and  the  discovery  she  made  was  that  she  liked 
her  home  very  much  better  when  she  was  away  from 
it  than  when  she  was  in  it.  When  a  visit  was  in 
prospect  she  desired  her  home,  that  is  to  say  her 
mother,  most  frightfully.  But  when  the  visit  was  in 
being  the  joy  she  had  promised  herself  she  would  spread 
somehow  was  not  at  her  command;  the  love  she  had 
yearned  to  show  somehow  was  chilled  within  her  and  not 


THIS  FREEDOM  159 

forthcoming.  It  was  the  tempting  dish  in  a  new  illus- 
tration —  rushing  eagerly  to  it,  avid  of  its  delights ;  com- 
ing to  it  and  finding,  after  all,  one  was  not  hungry. 

Strange ! 

Her  mother  was  ageing  rapidly.  She  could  have  wept 
to  see  the  ageing  signs;  but  somehow,  seeing  them,  did 
not  weep;  was  not  moved;  received  the  impression  but 
was  not  sensitive  to  it;  felt  the  tug  but  did  not  respond 
to  the  pull.  Rather,  indeed,  was  apt  to  be  a  little  impa- 
tient. Returned  to  London  and  to  her  engrossing  work 
and  longed  to  be  back  with  her  mother ;  came  back  to  her 
mother  —  and  was  not  hungry. 

Strange ! 

Then  she  began  to  analyse  the  strangeness  of  it  and 
found  it  was  not,  after  all,  so  strange;  at  least  it  was  not 
a  thing  to  be  distressed  about,  nor  bearing  conviction  of 
unnatural  qualities,  of  hardness,  of  unkindness.  There 
was  a  line  she  knew  that  came  in  a  verse : 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  thing 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore. 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more 

"  The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more." 
That  was  the  line.  "  The  things  which  used  to  appeal  to 
me  now  appeal  no  more  —  or  rather  not  quite  in  the  same 
way.  I  think  I  used  to  be  very  sentimental.  It  is  stupid 
and  useless  to  be  sentimental.  People  must  grow  old. 
There's  nothing  sad  in  that.  It  is  natural.  It  is  life. 
It  is  life  and  one  must  accept  life.     The  unnatural  thing, 


160  THIS  FREEDOM 

the  foolish  and  wrong  thing,  is  to  remain  a  sentimental 
child  for  ever,  with  a  child's  ready  foolish  tears  at  what 
are  common,  necessary  facts  of  life.  I  can  be  much 
kinder,  much  more  really  kind,  by  seeing  things  clearly 
and  in  their  right  perspective  than  by  occluding  them  with 
false  compassions.  I  am  always  my  dear,  my  darling 
mother's  devoted  daughter,  ever  at  her  disposal,  and  she 
knows  it  and  loves  me  for  it.  When  I  am  to  her  or  to  any 
friend  but  as  ships  that  pass  in  the  night  —  Keggo's 
phrase  —  then  let  me  take  myself  to  task." 

Keggo's  phrase !  Keggo  was  being  intermittently  seen 
at  this  time  and  these  thoughts  of  Rosalie's  were  very 
close  to  the  occasion  when  finally  she  lost  sight  of  Keggo. 
It  could  be  said  like  this  —  that  Keggo  here  made  a 
contribution  to  Rosalie's  life  that  passed  Rosalie  on  her 
way. 

They  had  kept  touch  for  quite  a  time  after  their  sepa- 
ration as  governess  and  pupil.     They  then  lost  touch. 

"Why,  it  must  be  more  than  a  year!  "  cried  Rosalie, 
suddenly  encountering  Miss  Keggs  near  the  Marble  Arch 
one  evening  and  delightedly  greeting  her.  It  was  in  the 
summer  and  Rosalie  had  gone  out  from  the  boarding 
house  after  dinner  for  some  fresh  air  in  the  park.  She 
was  enormously  glad  to  see  Keggo  again  and  carried  her 
greeting  straight  on  into  excuses  for  her  share  in  their 
long  sundering.  "  More  than  a  year !  You  know,  the 
fact  is,  Keggo,  that  when  I  first  left  the  Sultana's,  and 
for  quite  a  time  afterwards,  I  used  to  gush.  I  did!  I 
was  so  frightfully  full  of  all  I  was  doing  and  it  was  all 
so  new  and  so  wonderful  and  I  was  so  excited  about  it 
that  it  was  sheer  letting  off  steam  —  gush  —  to  write  you 
reams  and  reams  of  letters  about  it  as  I  used  to  do.  Then 
it  got  normal  and  the  —  the  tumultuousness  of  it  wore  off 
and  I  was  just  —  I  am,  you  know  —  just  absolutely  ab- 
sorbed in  it  and  there  was  no  more  steam  to  let  off ;  all  the 


THIS  FREEDOM  161 

energy  went  into  the  work,  I  suppose.  So  gradually,  I 
suppose,  without  quite  realising  it,  I  gave  up  writing. 
But,  oh,  if  you  knew  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  now !  " 

Miss  Keggs  to  all  this  presented  only  a  fixed  smile. 
A  smile  belongs  much  more  to  the  eyes  than  to  the  lips. 
The  lips,  but  not  the  eyes,  can  counterfeit  a  smile.  False 
coin  is  "  uttered  "  as  they  say  in  law;  and  the  lips  utter. 
Not  so  the  eyes.  All  metal  that  the  mouth  issues  is  to 
be  tested  there.  The  expression  in  Miss  Keggs's  eyes 
was  not  at  all  in  consonance  with  that  of  her  mouth. 
The  expression  of  her  eyes  was  rather  oddly  vacant  as 
you  may  see  on  the  face  of  a  person  who  is  apparently 
attending  to  what  you  are  saying  but  really  is  listening  to 
another  conversation  in  the  same  room.  "  Not  listen- 
ing "  as  it  is  called.    "  An  absent  look  "  as  they  say. 

Nevertheless  she  joined  dove-tailed  response  to  Rosa- 
lie's words.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Miss  Keggs, 
speaking  very  slowly  and  repeating  the  preamble.  "  To 
tell  you  the  truth  I  wouldn't  have  received  your  letters 
if  you  had  written  them." 

"  You  wouldn't?     Why  not?  " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth —  "  there  had  been  a  pause  be- 
fore she  first  spoke;  a  pause  again  before  this  reply  and 
then  again  a  beginning  with  this  phrase  about  which  there 
was  nothing  odd  in  itself  but  something  odd  in  the  man- 
ner of  its  use  by  Miss  Keggs.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth. 
Eve  left  the  school." 

"Left  the  Sultana's!" 

Miss  Keggs  nodded  with  slow  inclinations,  like  grave 
bows,  of  her  head. 

"Whatever  for?  Keggo,  when,  why?"  And  then 
Rosalie,  impelled  by  some  apprehension  that  suddenly 
pressed  her,  put  a  quick  hand  on  Keggo's  arm  and  cried 
sharply,  "  Keggo !   There  is  something  very  strange  about 


162  THIS  FREEDOM 

you.  What  has  happened  to  you?  Something  has  hap- 
pened.    You  can't  keep  it  from  me." 

But  Keggo  could.  At  that  quick  gesture  of  suspicion 
of  Rosahe's,  animation  sprung  to  meet  it  as  a  cat,  at  a 
sudden  start,  will  leap  from  profound  slumber  to  a  place 
of  safety  and  to  arched  defence.  Miss  Keggs,  in  their 
first  exchanges,  might  have  been  as  one  drowsily  answer- 
ing questions  from  a  bed.  She  was  suddenly,  in  her  in- 
stant casting  away  of  her  absent  air,  as  that  one  flinging 
away  the  bedclothes  and  leaping  upright  to  the  floor. 
What  had  she  been  saying?  She  had  been  quite  lost 
in  something  she  was  thinking  of  when  Rosalie  came  up. 
She  scarcely  had  recollected  her.  She  had  been  very, 
very  ill  with  "  this  influenza  "  and  still  v/as  only  con- 
valescent. Why,  how  very,  very  glad  she  was  to  see  her 
dear  Rosalie  again!     And  how  Rosalie  had  developed! 

"  Why,  Rosalie,  you  are  beautiful !  You  are !  And  you 
don't  blush  or  simper  to  hear  it !    Yes,  you  are  beautiful." 

There  was  a  little  room  in  a  street  somewhere  off  the; 
Harrow  Road  that  Miss  Keggs  now  occupied.  It  was  a 
forbidding  street.  It  was  one  of  those  derelict  streets 
frequent  in  certain  quarters  of  London,  in  Holloway,  in 
Kentish  Town,  in  Kilburn  and  all  over  South  London, 
all  about  which  life  teems  and  roars  but  where,  along 
their  own  pavements,  no  life  is.  They  are  most  charac- 
teristic of  themselves,  these  streets,  when,  as  often  to  be 
seen,  there  is  no  soul  along  them  but  a  sad  drab  that  is 
an  itinerant  singer  that  drifts  along  wailing,  at  every  few 
paces  shufiling  her  body  in  complete  turns  to  scan  the 
windows  she  has  passed  and  the  immediate  windows  on 
either  hand.  She  has  no  home  and  these  are  not  homes 
to  which  she  wails.  There  is  no  flicker  of  life  at  any 
window.  She's  a  sad  drab,  repulsive  within ;  and  they  are 
sad  drabs,  not  nice  within.     At  night,  but  not  before 


THIS  FREEDOM  163 

dusk,  forlorn  things  flicker  in  and  out  of  them  like  drab 
ghosts  had  on  the  strings  of  a  puppet  show.  By  day- 
there  sometimes  is  an  old  man  crawling  in  or  crawling 
out;  sometimes  a  woman,  always  with  a  parcel  or  a  net 
bag,  fleeting  along,  expressionless.  The  high  houses,  all 
of  one  pattern,  appear  to  have  no  pattern.  They  are  like 
dead  walls  and  the  place  they  enclose  like  a  vault,  and  the 
itinerant  drab  like  a  thing  in  drab  cerements  (they  trail 
the  dust)  that  ought  to  be  dead  wailing  for  entrance  to 
things,  tombed  in  those  walls,  that  are  dead.  There  is  no 
life  at  all  in  these  streets.  There  is  nothing  active  or  posi- 
tive. There  is  just  passivity  and  negation.  There  is 
just  nothingness.  They  are  not  habitations,  which  con- 
note life;  they  are  repositories,  which  connote  desuetude. 
They  are  the  repositories  of  creatures,  not  that  have  done 
with  life,  for  the  sheer  fact  of  living  acknowledges  serv- 
ice to  life,  but  with  whom  life  has  done. 

These  came  to  be  Rosalie's  thoughts  of  this  street  — 
Limpen  Street  —  but  they  could  not  have  been  hers  when 
she  was  first  going  there  to  spend  evenings  with  Miss 
Keggs,  for  it  was  in  her  earlier  visits  there  to  Keggo 
that  she  cried  there.  When  she  could  cry  for  pure  com- 
passion for  another  she  was  still  too  —  too  ardent  for 
Limpen  Street  to  be  seen  as  it  Jias  been  presented.  From 
the  first  it  affected  her  disagreeably  but  she  v/ould  have 
felt,  then,  a  sympathy  for  its  state,  and  a  belief  that  it 
could  be  aroused  out  of  its  state,  and  a  wish  so  to  arouse 
it;  and  in  her  earlier  visits  she  had  ardently  this  sym- 
pathy, but  it  was  raised  to  a  profound  compassion ;  this 
belief,  but  it  was  a  conviction;  and  this  wish,  but  it  was 
a  resolution,  in  regard  to  Keggo. 

For  Keggo  was  drinking. 

Keggo  had  been  drinking  for  years  and  years  and  now 
Keggo  had  walled  herself  away  in  Limpen  Street  to  drink 
and  drink,  still  secretly  with  the  sharp  cunning  of  the 


164  THIS  FREEDOM 

secret  drinker,  but  now  with  cunning  only  necessary  when 
of  her  own  wish  she  met  the  world.  At  the  Sultana's, 
(only  Mr.  Ponders  in  her  secret,  and  in  her  pay;  "that 
vile  man  "  as,  after  the  revelation,  she  ahvays  spoke  of 
him  to  Rosalie)  at  the  Sultana's  and  in  all  her  life  of 
that  period  she  was,  as  it  were,  as  one  whose  life  is 
threatened,  dwelling  among  spies ;  that  breastplate  of  her 
cunning  never  could  be  laid  off  then ;  now,  as  one  threat- 
ened, but  secure  in  a  castle,  the  breastplate  only  was 
needed  when  sallies  forth  were  made.  There  was  at  the 
Sultana's  the  need  of  constant  care  to  inhibit  her  crav- 
ings ;  there  now  was  none  to  save  her  —  unless  Rosalie 
did. 

There  is  no  need  at  all  to  tell  all  this  and  all  that  by 
which  Rosalie  was  led  to  this  most  terrible  discovery  and 
Keggo  impelled  to  her  most  painful  revelation.  There 
was  deceit  and  its  exposure;  lies  and  their  crumpling  in 
the  hand ;  mystifications  and  their  sinister  interpretations ; 
contingencies  and  their  ugly  dissolutions.  These  would 
be  all  beastly  to  tell.  Beastly  is  a  vile  word  but  this  is 
a  vile  thing.  There  was  about  it  all,  all  the  time,  a  tainted 
and  unwholesome  atmosphere.  There  was  always  in  the 
little  room  in  Limpen  Street  that  strange  disagreeable 
smell  of  bad  eau-de-Cologae  that  always  had  hung  about 
the  little  room  at  the  Sultana's. 

Beastly  things.  .  .  . 

But  they  were  not  felt  to  be  beastly  by  Rosalie,  then. 
They  are  said  here  to  be  beastly,  for  they  were  beastly, 
only  in  excuse  for  Rosalie  afterwards.  They  only  were 
to  her,  then,  intensely  sad,  most  deeply  pitiful,  intensely 
increasing  of  her  love  for  Keggo  as  pure  love  is  increased 
by  seeing  its  object  in  tortures  that  may  not  be  helped 
because  they  will  not  be  confessed.  If  only  Keggo  would 
tell  her !  Once  or  twice  she  said  to  Keggo,  speaking  with 
an  entreaty  that  must  have  made  obvious  to  Keggo  her 


THIS  FREEDOM  165 

knowledge,  "  Keggo,  haven't  you  something  to  tell  me ; 
something  that  you'd  like  to  tell  me?"  The  occasion 
was  always  when  she  was  leaving  after  a  visit  that 
had  found  Keggo  very  unwell,  very  dejected  of  spirits, 
and  that  Keggo  had  at  last  terminated  by  saying, 
"  I  think  perhaps  you  had  better  go,  Rosalie.  I 
think  perhaps  I'd  be  better  lying  down."  But  Keggo's 
answer  always  w'as,  "  Something  to  tell  you?  No,  noth- 
ing at  all !     What  should  I  have  to  tell  you?  " 

And  then  one  day  something  said  brought  them  very 
near  to  the  matter  between  them.  TVIiss  Keggs  came 
nearer  yet.  She  said,  "  The  fact  is,  Rosalie,  I  sometimes 
get  so  I  simply  cannot  make  an  effort,  the  smallest  effort. 
I  believe  when  I'm  like  that  if  a  thousand  pounds  were 
offered  me  for  the  going  out  and  asking  of  it,  and  God 
knows  I  want  it  badly  enough,  I  simply  could  not  make 
the  effort  to  do  it.  I'd  simply  let  it  pass  and  know  that 
I  was  letting  it  pass  and  not  care.  That's  how  it's  got 
with  me,  how  it  is  sometimes  with  me,  Rosalie." 

Rosalie  said  with  extraordinary  emphasis,  leaning  for- 
ward on  the  chair  in  which  she  sat  facing  Keggo.  "  Why 
is  it,  Keggo?  " 

If  Keggo  had  answered,  the  thing  would  not  have 
happened.  Keggo  did  not  answer.  She  was  sitting  with 
her  hands  crossed,  one  palm  upon  the  other,  and  resting 
on  her  lap,  her  eyes  to  the  ground.  Quite  a  long  time 
passed.  Rosalie  said,  "  You're  drinking,  aren't  you, 
Keggo?" 

"  Yes,  drinking,  Rosalie." 

"Oh,  Keggo!" 

It  was  then  that  Rosalie  cried. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

She  cried.  Her  sympathies,  though  drying  and  slower 
now  to  be  aroused,  still  then  were  such  that  she  could  weep 
for  pity.  It  is  a  glimpse  of  her  not  to  be  seen  again. 
There  was  she  on  her  knees  by  Keggo,  and  with  her  arms 
about  Keggo's  waist,  and  with  her  head  on  Keggo's  lap, 
crying  for  Keggo;  and  in  the  pauses  of  Keggo's  unfold- 
ing of  her  story  entreating  her,  as  one  that  cried  responses 
to  a  litany,  "Don't  mind,  Keggo!  Keggo,  don't  mind 
now !     Dear  Keggo,  poor  Keggo,  it's  all  right  now." 

And  presently  all  the  tale  told :  what  Mr.  Ponders' 
medicine  was ;  and  all  the  humiliation  suffered  in  keeping 
in  with  "  that  vile  man  " ;  and  that  vile  man's  betrayal 
of  her  to  the  Sultana,  and  her  dismissal :  and  all  the  earlier 
dread  fulness  of  her  first  steps  down  into  her  dreadful 
malady;  and  all  the  dreadful  secrecy  of  all  those  years; 
and  all  the  horrible  humiliation  secretly  to  get  her  poison ; 
and  all  the  horrible  humiliations  when  her  poison  got. 
All  the  dark  tale  of  that  presently  told;  and  her  head 
bowed  down  to  Rosalie's,  and  Rosalie's  wet  face  against 
her  face,  and  her  face  also  wet;  and  just  her  murmurs, 
murmured  at  intervals,  as  though  her  heart  that  had  dis- 
charged its  grievous  load  ran  slowly  now,  slowly  to  rise 
and  then  to  well  with,  "God  bless  you,  Rosalie;  oh, 
Rosalie,  God  bless  you  " ;  and  for  a  long  time  just  seated 
thus,  cheek  to  cheek,  hand  to  hand,  heart  to  heart;  weak- 
ness bound  about  with  strength,  sorrow  in  pity's  arms, 
travail  in  sanctuary.   .    .    . 

It  is  desired  that  one  should  try  to  see  that  picture. 


THIS  FREEDOM  167 

Its  counterpart  was  not  again  in  the  life  of  Rosalie,  hard- 
ening. 

There  were,  after  that,  such  happy  evenings  in  Keggo's 
room.  Keggo,  with  one  to  help  her,  fighting  for  her- 
self; Rosalie,  with  one  to  help,  elevated  upon  that  high 
happiness  that  comes  with  fighting  for  another.  For  a 
short  time  there  seemed  to  be  no  lapses  in  Keggo's  strug- 
gle. When  they  came  (as  Rosalie  knew  afterwards)  the 
practised  cunning  of  years  of  secrecy  had  no  difficulty  in 
concealing  them  from  the  unsuspecting  eyes  of  Rosalie. 
Ill  that  it  was  so!  Rosalie  was  harder  when  came  the 
lapse  that  cunning  could  not  hide.  She  did  not  cry.  Her 
eyes  were  hard.  She  said  with  thin  lips,  "  Why,  even 
all  this  time  you  have  been  deceiving  me !  "  the  which 
egged  on,  in  that  vile  way  in  which  exchanges  of  a  quar- 
rel are  as  knives  sharpening  one  against  the  other,  Keg- 
go's enflamed  retort,  "  The  more  fool  you!    Little  fool!  " 

But  at  first,  while  the  lapses  were  few  and  the  cunning 
was  equal  to  them,  only  a  closer  friendship  was  set  afoot 
between  the  woman  that  was  grown  and  the  woman  that 
was  burgeoning,  and  there  were  such  very  happy  evenings 
in  the  room  in  Limpen  Street.     Such  jolly  talks. 

There  was  one  talk  that,  forgotten  with  the  very  even- 
ing of  its  passage,  afterwards  very  strongly  returned  to 
Rosalie  and  abode  with  her.  It  had  in  it  rather  vital 
things  for  Rosalie. 

She  loved  to  talk  about  her  work  with  intelligent  and 
sympathetic  Keggo,  and  she  had  been  on  this  occasion 
expounding  to  her  the  mysteries  and  interest  of  life  in- 
surance :  in  particular  explaining  the  "  romance  "  of  vital 
statistics;  in  particular,  again,  the  curious  fact  that, 
though  women  in  the  United  Kingdom  largely  outnum- 
bered men,  many  more  male  children  were  born  than  fe- 
male. The  disproportion  "  the  other  way  about  "  in  ma- 
turity, said  Rosalie,  was  because  the  death  rate  among 


168  THIS  FREEDOM 

men  was  much  higher  —  due  to  risks  of  their  occupations. 
"  A  certain  number  of  house  painters,"  said  Rosahe 
sagely,  "  fall  off  ladders  every  year  and  are  killed;  women 
don't  paint  houses,  so  they  don't  fall  off  ladders  and  get 
killed.  Similarly  on  railways,  Keggo.  The  death  rate 
among  railway  men  is  much  higher  in  proportion,  over 
an  average,  than  the  rate  in  any  other  occupation.  Por- 
ters doing  shunting,  for  instance,  are  always  getting 
killed.  Well,  women  don't  shunt  trains  so  they  don't 
get  killed  while  shunting  trains,  so  there  you  are  again, 
so  to  speak.  The  thing  in  a  nutshell,  Keggo,  is  that,  by 
contrast,  men  lead  dangerous  lives." 

Keggo,  who  always  was  very  alert  in  response,  was 
here  very  long  in  responding.  Then  she  responded  an 
extraordinary  thing  that  Rosalie  afterwards  remembered. 
She  said  slowly,  "  Oh,  but  Rosalie,  it's  very  dangerous  to 
be  a  woman." 

Rosalie  questioned  her. 

Keggo  said,  "  Rosalie,  you've  great  Ideas,  and  I  think 
very  shrewd  and  very  striking  ideas,  about  the  difference 
between  men  and  women,  but  there's  this  difference  I 
think  you  haven't  thought  of  —  the  danger  that  women 
carry  in  themselves;  right  in  them,  here"  —  she  had  a 
hand  against  her  breast  and  she  pressed  it  there —  "  born 
in  them,  inerradicable,  and  that  men  have  not.  Men  go 
into  dangers  but  they  come  out  of  them  and  go  home 
to  tea.  That's  what  it  is  with  men,  Rosalie.  They  can 
always  get  out.  They  can  always  come  back.  They 
never  belong  to  a  thing,  body  and  soul  and  heart  and 
mind.  Rosalie,  women  do.  That's  their  danger.  That's 
why  it  is  so  very,  very  dangerous  being  a  woman. 
Women  can't  come  back.  They  can't,  Rosalie.  Look  at 
me.  They  take  to  a  thing  and  it  becomes  a  craze,  it  be- 
comes an  obsession,  it  becomes  a  drug.  Look  at  me. 
They  take  to  a  thing — anything;  a  poison  like  mine, 


THIS    FREEDOM  169 

or  a  pursuit  like  some  one  else's,  or  an  idea  like  some 
other's,  or  a  —  a  career  in  life  like,  like  yours,  Rosalie, 
—  they  take  to  it  and  go  deep  enough,  and  they're  its; 
they  never  will  get  away  from  it,  they  never,  never  will 
be  able  to  come  out  of  it.     Never." 

She  was  extraordinarily  vehement.  It  was  embarrass- 
ing for  Rosalie.  Rosalie  desired  to  contest,  as  vehemently, 
these  theories.  She  did  not  believe  them  a  bit.  They 
were  founded,  she  felt,  on  the  tragedy  of  Keggo's  own 
case.  Keggo  w^as  unfairly,  though  very  naturally,  argu- 
ing from  the  particular  to  the  general,  from  the  personal 
to  the  abstract.  But  how  could  she  reply  to  Keggo.  "  Of 
course  you  say  that?  " 

She  was  silent;  but  she  betrayed  perhaps  her  thoughts 
in  a  gesture,  her  difficulty  in  some  expression  of  her  face. 

Keggo  said  very  intensely,  "  But,  Rosalie,  if  you  only 
knew!  With  me  it's  drink  and  you'll  say — .  But  I  say 
to  you,  Rosalie,  never,  never  let  anything  get  the  mastery 
of  you.  With  me  it's  drink  and  you'll  say  that  is  a  matter 
altogether  different,  with  which  parallels  are  not  to  be 
drawn.  Oh,  do  not  believe  it,  Rosalie.  A  woman  should 
in  all  things  be  desperately  temperate  —  watchfully,  des- 
perately temperate.  A  man  —  nearly  every  man  —  seems 
somehow  to  have  his  life  and  all  his  interests  in  compart- 
ments. He  can  be  immersed  in  one  while  he  is  in  it,  and 
can  get  out  of  it  and  distribute  himself  over  his  others 
and  close  it  and  forget  it.  Rosalie,  a  woman  can't.  Men 
have  hobbies.  They  don't  have  attachments ;  they  have 
i/^tachments.  They  detach  themselves  and  turn  to  a  thing 
and  they  detach  themselves  from  it  and  turn  back  again. 
Rosalie,  women  don't  turn  to  a  thing ;  they  go  to  it.  They 
don't  have  hobbies,  they  have  obsessions.  They  don't 
trifle,  they  plunge.  They  cannot  sip,  they  drain.  It's 
in  their  bone.  They  never  would  have  occupied  the  place 
they  do  occupy  if  it  were  not  that  from*  the  beginning 


170  THIS  FREEDOM 

they  have  given  themselves  over,  or  they  were  given  over, 
to  mastery.  They  are  the  weaker  vessel.  Rosalie,  I  tell 
you  this,  when  a  woman  gives  herself,  forgets  moderation 
and  gives  herself  to  anything,  she  is  its  captive  for  ever. 
She  may  think  she  can  come  back,  but  she  can't  come 
back.  For  a  woman  there  is  no  comeback.  They  don't 
issue  return  tickets  to  women.  For  women  there  is  only 
departure;  there  is  no  return." 

Rosalie  said,  "  Keggo,  I  think  I  could  argue,  but  I 
won't.  But  what  I  can't  imagine  is  the  application  of 
it  in  hundreds  of  cases  —  in  by  far  the  great  majority 
of  cases.  Take  mine.  You're  not  warning  me,  are  you? 
I  don't  see  the  possibility  —  " 

Keggo  said,  "  Darling,  Em  not  warning  you  and  yet 
I  am.  I  am  warning  you  because  you  are  a  woman; 
and  because  you  are  a  woman  you  are  susceptible  to  dan- 
ger. It's  what  I've  said;  it's  what  I  would  have  you 
remember  for  a  day  perhaps  to  come,  that  it  is  dangerous 
being  a  woman.  I'm  not  warning  you,  because  there's 
nothing  to  —  well,  but  isn't  there  ?  You've  got  a  theory 
of  life  and  you  are  bent  upon  a  career  in  life.    There's  —  " 

Rosalie  cried,  "  Well,  but  there  you  are,  Keggo.  No 
comeback,  no  return  tickets  —  well,  I  don't  want  to  come 
back;  I  don't  want  a  return  ticket." 

"  You  might.  You  never  know.  Suppose  you  ever 
did?" 

"  But  you  can't  suppose  it.    Why  ever  should  I  ?  " 

"  Suppose  you  wanted  to  marry?  " 

Rosalie  laughed.  The  thing  immediately  lost  reality. 
**  Well,  suppose  the  incredible.  Suppose  I  did.  There'd 
be  no  comeback  wanted  there.  I  could  perfectly  well 
marry  and  still  keep  my  theory  of  life;  I  could  perfectly 
well  marry  and  still  keep  on  in  my  career  —  and  most 
certainly  I  would  still  keep  on.  Why,  that  is  my  theory 
of  life,  as  you  call  it,  or  a  very  outstanding  principle  of 


THIS  FREEDOM  171 

it.  There's  nothing  to  me  more  detestable  in  the  whole 
business  than  the  idea  that  because  a  woman  marries  she 
therefore  must  give  up  her  work.  That's  what  is  the 
reason  the  boarding  house  and  every  boarding  house  and 
every  home  and  street  and  city  swarms  with  derelicts  — 
with  derelict  women  —  just  because  their  lives  are  all 
planned  as  blind  alley  occupations,  marriage  at  the  end 
of  the  alley,  no  need  to  do  anything,  no  need  to  be  any- 
thing because  it's  only  a  blind  alley  you're  in.  When  you 
reach  the  end  —  you  reach  the  end !  That's  it,  Keggo. 
You  reach  the  end.  You're  a  w^oman,  therefore  for  you 
—  the  end!" 

She  laughed  again.  She  was  returning  Keggo's  vehe- 
mence without  embarrassment  upon  the  subject  that  had 
made  return  difhcult.  She  cried,  "  I've  got  you  now, 
Keggo.  I  really  have.  You  say  they  don't  issue  return 
tickets  to  women.  No.  Perhaps  they  don't;  but  I'll  tell 
you  where  they  book  them  all  to  —  from  the  cradle :  to 
a  terminus." 

Keggo  smiled  and  would  have  spoken.  But  Rosalie 
was  pleased  with  her  adroit  turning  of  metaphors.  She 
repeated  "  To  a  terminus.  Well,  I've  booked  beyond, 
Keggo."  She  laughed  again.  "  And  then  the  idea  of 
marriage  for  me !  I've  granted  the  preposterous  just  for 
the  sake  of  the  argument  and  just  to  floor  the  argument. 
But  you  know,  you  know  perfectly  well  from  all  our 
talks,  even  so  far  back  as  at  the  Sultana's,  that  it's  simply 
too  grotesque!  Marriage,  for  me!  Why,  if  a  million 
men  came  to  me  on  their  bended  knees,  each  with  a  mil- 
lion pounds  on  their  backs  you  know  perfectly  well  that 
I'd  just  feel  sick.  Tame  cats,  tabby  cats,  tomcats,  Cheshire 
cats,  wild  cats,  stray  cats,  —  I'm  not  going  to  set  up  a 
cats'  home.     No  thanks." 

So  Rosalie  had  the  laugh  of  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  IX 

But  this  was  not  to  continue.  Keggo  began  to  lapse; 
Rosalie  began  to  weary  of  helping  Keggo.  She  had  her- 
self to  think  of.  Those  who  go  down  in  life,  whether  by 
age  or  by  misfortune,  are  prone,  engulfed,  to  cry  to  those 
ascending,  "You  could  help  me!"  There  is  a  correct 
answer  to  this.  It  is,  "  I  have  done  (or  I  do)  a  great 
deal  for  you.  I  cannot  do  more.  It  is  not  fair  to  ask 
me  to  do  more.  I  have  a  duty  to  myself.  I  have  myself 
to  think  of."     Our  generation  endorses  this. 

Rosalie  had  herself  to  think  of.  By  stages  that  need 
not  be  detailed,  they  are  the  common  facts  of  life,  the 
thing  passes  from  that  picture  of  those  two  with  Rosalie's 
strong  young  arms  about  the  other  to  a  new  picture,  the 
last,  between  them. 

The  stages  show  Rosalie's  enormous,  ardent  plans  for 
the  rescue  and  rehabilitation  of  Keggo,  and  they  show 
the  projection  and  the  failure  of  the  plans.  They  show 
work  found  for  Keggo  (through  Simcox's  scholastic 
side)  and  lost  and  found  again  and  again  lost  and  still 
again.  They  show  Keggo's  remorse  and  they  show  Rosa- 
lie's forgiveness.  They  show  it  repeated  and  repeated. 
They  show  by  degrees  the  gradual,  and  then  the  rapid, 
staling  of  Rosalie's  fond  sympathies.  They  show  her 
finally,  immersed  in  her  own  purposeful  interests,  dis- 
covering to  herself  feelings  in  regard  to  Keggo  on  a 
plane  with  feelings  discovered  to  herself  in  regard  to  her 
mother.  It  has  been  written :  "  Her  mother  was  ageing 
rapidly.  Rosalie  could  have  wept  to  see  the  ageing  signs; 
but  somehow,  seeing  them,  did  not  weep ;  was  not  moved ; 


THIS  FREEDOM  173 

received  the  impression  but  was  not  sensitive  to  it;  felt 
the  tug  but  did  not  respond  to  the  pull.  Rather,  indeed, 
was  apt  to  be  a  little  impatient."  It  is  not  necessary  to 
expand  "  Keggo  was  fast  going  downhill.  Rosalie  could 
have  wept  to  see  the  downhill  signs ;  but  somehow,  seeing 
them,  did  not  weep ;  was  not  moved  .  .  .  rather,  indeed 
.    .    .  impatient." 

She  had  herself  to  think  of. 

Youth's  an  excuse  for  youth  as  childhood's  an  excuse 
for  childishness.  Youth,  still,  like  childhood,  but  un- 
like maturity,  can  be  lost  in  its  emotions,  absorbed  in 
them  to  "the  exclusion  of  all  else,  abandoned  to  them  with 
all  else  pitched  away  as  a  swimmer  discards  his  every 
stitch  and  joyously  plunges  in  the  stream.  Youth  is  not 
accountable  for  its  actions  then :  it  is  too  happy  or  it  is  too 
sad.    One  oughtn't  to  blame  youth,  immersed. 

There  was  outstandingly  one  such  day  of  absorption  in 
delight,  of  abandonment  to  ecstasy  for  Rosalie,  and  it 
was  the  day  on  which  she  made  her  third  advance  in  the 
social  grade  of  Miss  Kentish's  boarding  house  and  moved 
into  the  two  rooms  en  suite,  furnished  and  decorated  by 
herself  to  her  own  taste.  She  awoke  to  this  great  day, 
long  anticipated;  and  with  the  vigorous  action  of  throw- 
ing off  the  clothes  and  jumping  out  of  bed,  she  plunged 
into  it  and  was  lost  in  it.  The  excitement  and  the  ela- 
tion of  taking  possession  of  that  enchanting,  that  signifi- 
cant apartment  of  her  own !  She  zvas  excited ;  she  was 
elated.  Moving  in  was  the  cumulative  excitement  of  all 
the  long-drawn,  anxious  excitements  of  peering  round 
the  antique  dealers  and  picking  up  the  bits  of  furniture 
and  of  placing  them  and  moving  them  a  shade  to  this 
side  and  then  a  shade  to  that  till  was  found  the  one  and 
only  exact  position  that  suited  them  and  that  they  suited ; 
and  the  terrible  excitements  of  watchinsr  the  decorators 


174  THIS  FREEDOM 

at  work,  her  scheme  developing  beneath  their  hands,  and 
the  awful  knowledge  that  now  it  was  being  done  it  was 
done  for  good  or  bad  —  no  altering  it  now!  and  the 
agonizing  excitements  of  putting  down  the  carpets  — 
how  can  you  tell  exactly  how  a  carpet  is  going  to  look 
until  you  see  it  actually  down  upon  its  floor  and  between 
its  walls?  and  the  increasing  excitement  all  the  time  of 
the  knowledge  that  everything  was  harmonising  and  was 
looking  just  as  in  dreams  of  the  ideal  it  had  been  made 
to  look;  and  now  all  ready!  The  bed-sitting-room  slept 
in  last  night  for  the  last  time;  the  two  utterly  perfect 
rooms  and  all  that  their  possession  connoted,  to  be  occu- 
pied that  evening  for  the  first  time!  Yes,  in  all  the 
tumultuous  pride  and  engrossment  of  that,  there  was  no 
place  —  how  could  there  be  place  ?  —  for  tiresome  things 
of  other  people's  worlds,  if  such  should  offer. 

And  in  this  tremendous  day  there  was  stuff  more  tre- 
mendous yet.  This  also  was  the  day  on  whose  evening 
was  made  the  tremendous  tribute  to  her  work  and  to  her 
talent,  the  evening  of  the  dazzling  offer  that,  like  a  door 
swung  open  on  a  treasure  house,  disclosed  to  her  new 
fields  to  which  her  career  had  brought  her,  new  triumphs 
that  her  career,  in  its  stride,  might  make  her  own  —  the 
evening  when  Mr.  Sturgiss  of  Field's  Bank  leant  across 
the  dinner  table  in  his  house  (at  his  request  only  she  and 
himself  left  in  the  room)  and  said  in  his  quiet  voice, 
"  Well,  look  here  —  to  come  to  the  point  —  the  reason 
I've  got  you  up  here  to-night  —  it's  this:  we  want  you. 
Field  and  Company,  the  Bank,  we  want  you  to  join  us. 
We  want  you  in  Lombard  Street." 

Lombard  Street! 

Cumulative  also  was  this  thrill,  for  it  had  begun  some 
few  days  previously  when  Mr.  Sturgiss,  calling  at  Sim- 
cox's  for  a  chat  with  Mr.  Simcox,  an  old  friend,  had 
come   into  her  room   and  after  mysteriously  fidgetting 


THIS  FREEDOM  175 

with  business  and  conversational  trifles,  had  issued  the  in- 
vitation to  dinner  at  his  house  at  Cricklewood  in  language 
mysteriously  couched.  "  My  wife  would  like  to  meet 
you,"  said  Mr.  Sturgiss.  "  She's  heard  a  lot  from  me,  and 
from  Field,  of  what  an  astonishingly  clever  young  person 
we  think  you  and  she'd  —  she'd  like  to  meet  you.  And 
more  than  that."  Mr.  Sturgiss's  halting  speech  suddenly 
became  direct  and  definitive  like  a  flag  that  had  been  flut- 
tering suddenly  streaming  upon  the  breeze.  "  And  more 
than  that.  The  fact  is,  there's  a  proposition  I  want  to 
put  up  to  you.  A  proposition.  We  could  go  into  it  quietly 
and  discuss  it.  I  rather  think  it  would  interest  you.  Fm 
sure  it  will.  You'll  come?  Good.  Fm  very  glad.  Very 
glad." 

A  proposition !  From  Mr.  Sturgiss !  Of  Field  and 
Company !    What  could  it  be  ? 

But  Rosalie  was  not  of  the  sort  to  tread  the  succeed- 
ing days  on  the  enchanted  air  of  fond  surmises.  She  told 
herself  that  the  mysterious  proposition  might  be  every- 
thing or  might  be  nothing:  the  fact  that  outstood  was 
that  she  had  brought  her  aspirations  to  this  —  that  a 
partner  in  a  London  bank  recognised  in  her  stuff  sufficient 
to  invite  her  to  a  confidential  meeting,  there  to  go  into 
something  with  her  "  quietly  together,"  to  meet  together 
over  something  and  "  discuss  it."  She  had  determined 
to  establish  herself  and  she  was  establishing  herself.  And 
was  it  not  an  omen  propitious  and  significant  that  this 
recognition  of  her  parts  was  to  fall  on  the  very  day  on 
which  the  exercise  of  those  parts  brought  her  into  the 
dignity  and  comfort  of  that  delicious,  that  significant 
apartment  of  her  own? 

This  solid  stuff,  and  no  mere  daydreams,  was  the  de- 
light absorbing  her  and  the  ecstasy  to  which  she  was 
abandoned  when  that  great  day  came.  In  the  morning 
she  put  the  last  of  her  possessions,  the  equipment  of  her 


176  THIS  FREEDOM 

dressing  table,  into  the  new  apartment ;  after  the  day  spent 
at  Simcox's  she  returned  to  dress  for  the  first  time  be- 
fore the  noble  cheval  glass  purchased  for  the  bedroom. 
She  decided  to  go  up  in  a  hat;  it  could  be  removed  or 
not  for  dinner  as  Mrs.  Sturgiss  might  seem  to  indicate; 
she  put  on  an  evening  bodice  of  black  silk  and  net  with 
a  simple  skirt  in  keeping.  She  gave  last  approving  glances 
about  the  delightful  rooms  and  set  out,  immersed  in 
eager  happiness,   for  Cricklewood. 

One  of  those  old  red  buses  that  vied  with  the  white 
Putney  buses  as  being  the  best  horsed  on  the  London 
routes  took  her  there.  Up  the  Edgware  Road;  past  the 
junction  with  the  Harrow  Road  that  led  to  Keggo's  street 
—  she  only  had  for  it  the  thought  that  it  was  weeks  since 
she  had  seen  Keggo,  almost  months ;  along  broad  Maida 
Vale  and  past  the  turning  that  led  to  the  Sultana's  with 
the  corner  where  often  the  crocodile  had  huddled  —  and 
she  was  so  engrossed  in  her  happy  achievements  that  she 
passed  it  without  thinking  of  it.  The  bus  terminated  its 
journey  at  the  foot  of  Shoot  Up  Hill.  Rosalie,  called 
upon  to  alight,  came  out  of  her  thoughts  into  her  sur- 
roundings. She  realised  that  she  must  have  passed  Croco- 
dile Corner  without  noticing  and  the  realisation  caused 
her  to  give  a  little  note  of  amused  indifference.  The 
indifference  was  not  directed  precisely  at  the  Sul- 
tana's; it  was  at  the  idea,  which  came  to  her,  that, 
normally  to  human  predilections,  she  ought  to  have 
given  —  ought  now  to  give  —  a  sentimental  thought 
to  memories  of  the  Sultana  years.  Well,  she  did 
not.  Funny!  Yes,  it  was  funny.  As  she  sometimes 
thought  of  her  mother  and  oi  all  her  home  ties;  of 
Miss  Salmon  and  that  cry  of  hers  of  never  being  able 
to  find  another  lover ;  of  Keggo  now  so  seldom  seen  and 
known  to  be  going  from  bad  to  worse,  —  so  with  mem- 
ories of  Crocodile  Corner  and  the  Sultana's :  she  could  see 


THIS  FREEDOM  177 

and  appreciate  the  call  of  all  these  attachments,  but  some- 
how, seeing  and  appreciating,  did  not  respond  to  them. 
What  a  very  curious  attitude !  It  was  not  unfeeling  for 
she  could  feel.  It  was  not  insensibility  for  she  was  sensi- 
tive to  such  things.  Sensitive !  No,  a  better  word  than 
that.  She  was  in  such  matters  sensible.  She  saw,  as  one 
should  see,  these  things  in  their  right  perspective.  They 
were  touching  (as  of  her  mother)  or  they  were  sad  (as 
of  Keggo)  or  they  were  appealing  (as  the  happy  school- 
girl memories)  but  they  must  not  touch  or  sadden  or 
appeal  too  closely.  They  must  be  estimated  in  their  de- 
gree and  in  their  place ;  they  must  not  be  assumed,  be 
shouldered,  be  permitted  to  cumber.  No  good  could  be 
done  to  them  by  encumbrance  with  them.  That  was  the 
point.  What  good  could  it  do  them?  No  good.  Yes, 
that  was  sensible. 

She  abated,  in  these  thoughts,  nothing  of  the  eager- 
ness with  which  she  was  living  this  great  day  —  the  day 
whose  points  of  suspension  (on  which  it  tumultuously 
revolved)  were  the  taking  over  of  the  significant  apart- 
ment from  which  she  had  just  come  and  the  entering 
upon  the  significant  invitation  to  which  now  her  feet 
were  taking  her.  These  thoughts,  this  analysis  of  her 
attitude  to  sentimental  appeals,  she  tossed  upon  her  eager 
happiness  that  was  her  being  as  an  airball  tossed  upon 
laughing  breath  that  yet  is  used,  breathing,  to  support 
life.  And  she  was  aware  that  this  was  so.  And  she 
enjoyed  a  flash  of  approval  of  herself  that  it  could  be 
so;  it  was  admirable,  it  was  sensible,  thus  to  be  able  to 
detach  and  look  upon  a  portion  of  her  mind  while  her 
main  mind  deflected  not  a  shade  from  its  occupation  with 
the  main  chance.  That  faculty  was  perhaps  the  secret 
of  her  success,  the  quality,  that,  in  exercise,  had  brought 
her  to  the  significant  apartment  and  to  the  significant 
invitation. 


178  THIS  FREEDOM 

She  was  at  the  gate  of  Mr.  Sturgiss's  house  and  she 
most  happily  passed  up  the  short  drive,  ascended  the  steps 
and  rang  the  bell. 

Mr.  Sturgiss's  house  was  almost  on  the  summit  of 
Shoot  Up  Hill.  It  was  one  of  those  houses  standing  a 
few  miles  along  the  main  thoroughfares  out  of  London 
that,  now  in  decay  or  displaced  by  busy  shops,  packed 
villas,  or  monstrous  flats,  were  then  the  distinctly  im- 
pressive residences  of  distinctly  well-to-do  business  peo- 
ple. Mr.  Sturgiss  was  a  distinctly  well-to-do  business 
person.  The  house,  double-fronted,  had  that  third  sitting- 
room  which  confers  such  an  immense  superiority  over 
houses  of  but  two  sitting-rooms  —  "  Such  a  convenience 
in  so  many  ways  "  as  those  newly  promoted  from  twa 
to  three  nowadays  remark  with  languid  triumph  to  vis- 
itors still  immured  in  two.  Houses  —  new,  two  sitting- 
roomed  houses  —  extended  beyond  it  and  around  it,  and 
now  stretch  miles  beyond  and  about,  but  Mrs.  Sturgiss 
told  Rosalie  that  when  they  first  came  there  they  actually 
had  cows  grazing  and  horses  ploughing  in  fields  adjoin- 
ing their  garden. 

Mrs.  Sturgiss  told  Rosalie  this  while  personally  attend- 
ing Rosalie's  removal  of  her  hat  (it  was  "no  hat"; 
Rosalie  felt  so  glad  she  had  come  dressed  for  either  indi- 
cation) and  Mrs.  Sturgiss  sighed  pleasantly  as  she  said 
it.  "  Things  are  going  ahead  at  such  a  pace  now !  "  said 
Mrs.  Sturgiss.  "  It's  all  very  different  from  what  it  used 
to  be.  Why,  the  very  fact  of  your  coming  here,  not 
as  my  guest  but  as  my  husband's,  '  on  business ! '  The 
idea  of  women  being  in  business,  or  even  knowing  any- 
thing about  business,  when  I  was  a  girl,  why,  I  can't 
tell  you  how,  how  positively  shocking  it  would  have  been 
considered." 

Rosalie  laughed.  She  liked  Mrs.  Sturgiss,  who  was 
motherly   and   seemed   to  have   her   own   dear  mother's 


THIS  FREEDOM  179 

gentle  ways  —  this  personally  attending  her  in  her  bed- 
room, for  instance.  "  Oh,  there  are  getting  to  be  heaps 
of  women  in  business  now,  Mrs.  Sturgiss,"  she  smiled. 

Mrs.  Sturgiss  returned  brightly,  "  Oh,  I  know  it.  I 
know  it  well."  She  paused  and  her  voice  had  a  thought- 
ful note.  "  But  even  then.  .  .  .  Use  the  long  mirror, 
my  dear ;  the  light  is  better.  Even  then,  there  can  be  few 
as,  —  as  much  in  it  as  you.  You  know,  my  husband  has 
an  immense  idea  of  your  abilities.  He  has  spoken  of 
you  so  much.  Do  you  know,  you  are  a  great  surprise  to 
me,  now  I  see  you.  I  could  only  imagine  from  all  John's 
idea  of  you  a  rather  terrible  looking  blue-stocking,  as  we 
used  to  call  the  clever  women."  She  came  and  stood  by 
Rosalie,  regarding  the  image  in  the  glass  that  Rosalie 
regarded.     She  said  simply,  "  But  you  are  beautiful." 

A  very  odd  feeling,  akin  to  tears  —  but  for  what  on 
earth  tears  ?  —  quickened  in  Rosalie.  She  turned  sharply 
from  the  mirror.  "  I  am  quite  ready  now."  She  pre- 
tended she  had  not  heard. 

Mrs.  Sturgiss  said,  "  My  dear,  do  you  like  it,  being 
what  you  are?  " 

It  was  a  great  rescue  for  Rosalie  to  be  able  to  spring 
away  from  that  odd  feeling  (in  her  bosom  and  in  her 
throat)  by  swift  animation.  "  Oh,  I  love  it.  I  simply 
love  it.    It  is  everything  to  me,  everything  in  the  world !  " 

Mrs.  Sturgiss  opened  the  door.  "  No,  you  go  first, 
my  dear.  But  if  I  had  had  a  dear  girl,  such  as  you,  I 
would  have  wished  her  to  stay  with  me  at  home." 

She  had  made  with  her  hand  the  gesture  of  her  wish 
that  Rosalie  should  precede  her  from  the  room.  Rosalie 
impulsively  touched  the  extended  fingers.  "  But,  Mrs. 
Sturgiss,  don't  you  see,  that's  just  it,  the  idea  there  is 
now.  If  you  had  had  a  daughter  and  she  had  stayed  at 
home  —  well,  let  that  go,  while  you  were  with  her.     But 


180  THIS  FREEDOM 

when  you  died  and  left  her,  what  zvould  there  be  —  don't 
you  see  it?  —  what  would  there  be  for  her  then?  " 

Mrs.  Sturgiss  pressed  the  warm  young  hand.  "  But 
I  would  have  left  her  married,  a  dear  wife  and  a  dear 
mother." 

"  Oh,  that!  "  cried  Rosalie  and  her  stronger  personality 
carried  off  the  exchanges  in  a  laugh.  Mrs.  Sturgiss 
thought  the  expression  and  the  tone  meant,  happily,  that 
marriage  might  happen  to  any  one,  in  the  market  as 
much  as  in  the  home.  Rosalie,  with  all  the  fierce  contempt 
that  her  "  Oh,  that!  "  conveyed  to  her  secret  self,  was  rid- 
den strongly  away  from  emotionalism  in  the  conversa- 
tion. Her  thought  as  they  went  downstairs  was,  "HI 
were  to  instruct  her  in  the  cat-men  !    Her  horror !  " 

There  was  downstairs  a  surprise  that  was  very  annoy- 
ing, but  that  was  made  to  produce  compensations.  An 
unexpected  fourth  person,  presuming  —  so  Rosalie  was 
given  to  understand  —  on  a  long  standing,  indefinite  in- 
vitation, had  dropped  in  to  dinner.  She  recognised  him 
directly  they  entered  the  drawing-room  and  could  not 
stop  the  emblem  of  a  swift  vexation  about  her  mouth 
and  in  her  eyes.  He  caught  it,  she  was  sure ;  and  she 
hoped  he  did.  It  was  Harry  Occleve  —  Laetitia's  futile 
slave !  He  had  already  informed  his  host  that  he  knew 
her.  She  greeted  him  with  a  mere  touch  of  her  hand, 
a  touch  made  cold  by  intent,  and  with  "  With  a  free  even- 
ing off  one  would  have  expected  you  would  spend  it  with 
Laetitia,"  said  disdainfully.  It  was  a  rude  and  inept 
thing  to  say  (in  the  tone  she  said  it)  for  the  feeble  crea- 
ture, as  she  stigmatised  him,  had  not  yet  screwed  his 
fatuous  idolatry  to  the  point  of  proposal  of  marriage. 
But  she  intended  it  to  be  rude  and  to  discomfort  him  and 
she  was  glad  to  see  some  twinge  at  the  flick  pass  across 
his  face.    She  hated  his  presence  there.    The  presence  of 


THIS  FREEDOM  181 

any  man,  in  the  capacity  of  a  monkey  to  entertain  and  to 
be  entertained,  was  always,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point 
upon  it,  repulsive  to  her.  This  man  was  of  all  men  ob- 
noxious to  her.  When  he  approached  her  for  their  brief 
greeting  (she  turned  instantly  away  at  its  conclusion)  she 
savoured  immediately  that  odd,  nice  smell  there  was  about 
him,  of  mingled  soap  and  peat  and  fresh  tobacco  smoke 
and  tweed;  and  that  annoyed  her.  It  was  a  reminder, 
emanated  from  him  and  therefore  not  to  be  escaped,  of  a 
distinction  he  had  different  from,  and  above  common 
men.  She  always  granted  him  his  distinction  of  looks,  of 
air,  of  talent.  It  was  why  she  so  much  disdained  him. 
To  be  dowered  so  well  and  so  fatuously  to  betray  his 
dowry !    Tame  cat ! 

But  she  made  him,  through  the  meal,  pay  compensa- 
tions for  his  presence.  At  the  table  of  Aunt  Belle,  in 
his  presence  she  was  accustomed  to  sit  largely  silent. 
Beautiful  Laetitia  was  there  the  star;  and  while  he 
mouthed  and  languished  in  that  star's  rays  Aunt  Belle 
and  Uncle  Pyke,  (stealing  about  him  to  capture  him  as 
a  farmer  and  his  wife  with  mincing  steps  and  tempting 
morsel  towards  a  fatted  calf)  fawned,  flattered  and 
deferred  to  him,  he  returning  it.  There  was  no  place 
for  her,  and  she  would  have  shuddered  to  have  held  a 
place,  in  that  society  for  mutual  admiration.  She  sat 
apart.  She  was  very  much  the  poor  relation  (Aunt  Belle 
could  not  comprehend  her  business  success  and  Uncle 
Pyke  would  not  admit  it)  and  especially  odious  to  her 
was  the  Occleve's  polite  interest  in  her  direction  when 
Aunt  Belle,  poor-relationing  her,  would  turn  to  her  from 
coquettish  raillery  of  him  with,  "  Dear  child,  you're  eat- 
ing nothing."  He  would  smile  towards  her  and,  fatu- 
ously anxious  to  please,  offer  some  remark  that  might 
draw  her  into  the  conversation.  She  never  would  be  so 
drawn.     She  scarcely  ever  exchanged  words  with  him. 


182  THIS  FREEDOM 

She  made  herself  to  be  unconscious  of  his  presence. 
He  was  so  occupied  with  his  adoration  of  Laetitia  that 
to  be  insensible  of  his  presence  was  easy.  When  some- 
times she  glanced  towards  him  it  was  with  the  thought, 
"  Fancy  being  one  of  the  rising  young  men  at  the  Bar, 
being  the  rising  young  man  —  the  Bar,  with  silk  and 
ermine  and,  why  not?  the  Woolsack  before  you  —  and 
being  that,  doing  that!  Fatted  calf;  dilly,  dilly,  come 
and  be  killed,  goose ;  tame  cat !  " 

Here,  at  the  table  of  Mr.  Sturgiss,  it  was  very  differ- 
ent. Intolerable  that  he  should  be  here,  but  she  was  able 
to  make  him  provide  her  compensation  for  his  presump- 
tion. For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  found  herself  with 
sufficient  interest  in  a  man  to  enjoy,  nay,  to  seek,  a  tri- 
umph over  him.  And  she  had  that  triumph.  She  was 
as  certain  as  that  she  sat  there  that  Mr.  Sturgiss,  in  the 
period  before  her  arrival  in  the  drawing-room,  had  been 
telling  him  of  her  abilities  and  of  his  high  regard  for 
her.  There  was  an  interest  in  his  look  at  her  across  the 
table  that  assured  her  he  had  been  informed.  There  was, 
much  more,  a  conviction  within  her,  from  Mr.  Sturgiss's 
manner  and  from  his  choice  of  subjects  —  confined  al- 
most entirely  and  to  the  absolute  exclusion  of  Mrs.  Stur- 
giss to  the  political  situation  and  to  markets,  exchanges 
and  the  general  tendency  in  the  City  —  and  particularly 
from  the  openings  in  these  subjects  with  which  continu- 
ously he  presented  her  —  a  conviction  arising  out  of 
these  that  Mr.  Sturgiss,  proud  of  her,  of  his  discovery 
of  her,  was  bent  upon  showing  her  off  to  his  second 
guest,  bent  upon  proving  to  his  second  guest  what  un- 
questionably he  had  said  to  him  about  her. 

She  most  admirably  responded.  If  she  were  indeed 
the  subject  of  a  challenge  she  most  admirably  flattered 
her  backer.  She  is  not  to  be  imagined  as  a  pundit  ex- 
cavating from  within  herself  slabs  of  profound  wisdom, 


THIS  FREEDOM  183 

nor  yet  as  a  pupil  astoundingly  instructing  her  masters, 
nor  even  as  one  of  Mrs.  Sturgiss's  blue  stockings,  packed 
with  surprising  lore ;   Rosalie  was  nothing  so   foolishly 
impossible;  but  she  displayed  herself  knowledgeable;  she 
was  profoundly  interested  in  the  matters  under  notice 
and  therefore  (for  it  follows)  she  was  interesting  in  her 
contributions    to    them ;    she    was    fascinated  —  the    old 
fascination  of  "  Lombard  Street  "  and  of  "The  English 
Constitution "    now    intensified   as   desire   intensifies   by 
gratification  —  and    therefore    she    fascinated;    she    was 
never  silly  —  Rosalie  could  not  be  silly  —  but  she  was 
frequently  in  her  remarks  ingenuous,  but  her  ingenuous- 
ness, causing  Mr.  Sturgiss  more  than  once  to  laugh  de- 
lightedly   (Occleve,    curiously   grave,   no   doubt  because 
surprised,  did  not  laugh)  was  born  out  of  a  shrewd  touch 
towards  the  heart  of  the  matter,  as  the  best  schoolboy 
howlers  are  never  the  work  of  the  dullard  but  of  him 
that  has  perceptions.      Of  her  in  her  childhood  it  has 
been  said  that  she  was  never  the  wonder-child  of  fiction 
who  at  ten  has  read  all  that  its  author  probably  had  not 
read  at  thirty.     So  now  of  her  budding  maturity  she  was 
not  the  wonder-woman  of  fiction,  causing  by  her  brilliance 
her  hearers,  like  Cortez's  men,  to  stare  at  each  other  with 
a  wild  surmise.     No,  nothing  so  unlikely.     But  she  was 
intelligent  and  she  was  ardent;  and  there  are  not  boun- 
daries to  the  distance  one  may  go  with  that  equipment. 
She  was  admirable  and  she  felt  that  she  was  effective. 
She  had  a  consciousness  of  confidence  amounting  almost 
to  a  feeling  of  being  tuned  up  and  now  let  go;  to  a  feel- 
ing of  power,  as  of  inspiration.     And  this  strange  ani- 
mation that  she  had,  came,  she  knew%  from  the  triumph 
over  that  man,  from  the  feeling,  stated  grimly,  that  she 
was  giving  him  one. 

It  is  much  more  important,  all  that,  than,  when  it  came, 
the  great  reason  of  the  great  invitation  that  had  brought 


184  THIS  FREEDOM 

Rosalie  to  take  part  in  it.  The  great  reason  already  has 
been  disclosed  —  Mr.  Sturgiss,  bending  across  the  table- 
cloth, they  two  left  alone,  "Well,  look  here  —  to  come 
to  the  point  —  the  reason  why  I've  got  you  up  here  to- 
night —  it's  this :  we  want  you  —  Field  and  Company, 
the  Bank,  —  we  want  you  to  come  to  us  —  we  want  you 
in  Lombard  Street." 

She  was  beautiful  to  see  in  her  proud  happiness  at 
that.  Startled  and  tremulous,  she  was;  like  some  lovely 
fawn  burst  from  thicket  and  at  breathless  poise  upon  the 
crest  of  unsuspected  pastures;  within  her  eyes  the  cloud 
of  dreams  passing  like  veils  upon  the  gleam  of  her  first 
ecstasy;  upon  her  face,  shadowed  as  she  sinks  somewhat 
back,  the  tide  of  colour  (her  rosy  joy)  flooding  above 
her  sudden  pallor ;  her  lips  slightly  parted ;  her  hand  that 
had  been  plucking  at  the  cloth  caught  to  her  bosom  where 
her  heart  had  leapt. 

It  may  be  left  at  that.  It  is  enough ;  too  much.  What, 
in  the  reconstruction  of  a  life,  are,  in  retrospect,  its  tri- 
umphs but  empty  shards,  drained  and  discarded,  the  litter 
of  a  picnic  party  that  has  fed  and  passed  along? 

Mr.  Sturgiss  bent  farther  across  the  tablecloth,  ex- 
panding his  proposal :  She  knew,  said  he,  what  he  repre- 
sented, what  the  firm  was.  Field  and  Company.  A  priv- 
ate bank.  Well,  the  days  of  private  banks  were  drawing 
in.  These  huge  joint-stock  leviathans  swallowing  them 
up  like  pike  among  the  troutlings.  But  not  swallowing 
up  Field  and  Company!  Not  much!  If  the  old  private 
houses  were  tumbling  into  the  joint-stock  maw,  the 
greater  the  chances  for  those  that  stood  out  and  remained. 
The  private  banks  were  tumbling  in  because  they  stood 
rooted  in  the  old,  solid,  stolid  banking  business  and  the 
leviathans  came  along  and  pounced  while  they  dozed. 
There  was  no  dozing  at  Field's.  They  were  very  much 
awake.    They  were  enterprising. 


THIS  FREEDOM  185 

"Look  at  this  very  matter  between  us.     The  idea  of 
bringing  a  woman  into  a  bank !     Even  old  Field  himself 
was   startled  at  first.     Why?     In  America  women  are 
entering   banking   seriously   and    successfully.      They're 
going  to  in  England.     At  Field's.      You"     He  wasn't 
proposing  to  bring  her  in  for  fun  or  for  a  chance  that 
might  turn  up,  like  the  man  who  picked  up  a  dog  biscuit 
from  the  road  on  the  chance  that  some  one  would  give 
him  a  dog  before  it  got  mildewed;  no,  he  was  bringing 
her  in  to  develop  an  enterprise  that  should  be  the  parent  of 
other  and  greater  enterprises.     Her  knowledge  of  insur- 
ance, her  knowledge  of  schools,  these,  with  her  sex,  on 
the  one  side  of  the  counter  and  all  their  clients  —  the 
Anglo-Indian  crowd  who  were  the  backbone  of  the  busi- 
ness —  on  the  other  side  of  the  counter.     Field's,    for 
cash,  and,  while  it  w^as  drawing,  for  advice,  was  always 
the  first  port  of  call  of  the  wives  and  the  mothers  home 
from  India,  to  say  nothing  of  the  husbands  and  the  fath- 
ers, —  "  well.  Field's,  you,  shall  be  the  fount  of  all  that 
domestic  advice  that  is  just  what  all  those  people,  cut  off 
from  home,  are  constantly  and  distractingly  in  need  of." 
She  didn't  suppose,  as  it  was,  that  Field's  did  no  more 
for  them  than  bank  their  money?     Field's  were  their 
agents.     Field's  saw  that  they  booked  their  passages,  and 
that  their  baggage  got  aboard;  and  when  they  arrived 
this  end  or  the  other,  or  when  they  broke  their  journeys 
coming  or  going.  Field's  representatives  were  there  to 
meet  them  and  take  over  all  their  baggage  troubles  for 
them.      "  Very   well.      Now   Field's  —  yoii  —  are   going 
to   look   after  their  domestic   troubles    for   them  —  find 
them  rooms,  find  them  houses,  find  them  schools  for  their 
children.     When  people  know  what  we  can  do  for  them, 
people  will  come  to  us  to  bank  with  us  because  we  can 
do  it.     When  people  come  to  us  to  bank  with  us  —  we 
go  ahead." 


186  THIS  FREEDOM 

Mr.  Sturgiss  ended  and  drew  back  and  looked  at  her. 
He  lit  a  cigarette  and  took  a  sip  at  his  coffee.  *'  We 
thought  of  offering  you  three  —  "  he  set  down  his  cup 
and  looked  at  her  again  —  "  four  hundred  a  year." 

She  declined  the  post.  She  was  girlish,  and  delighted 
him,  in  her  expression  of  her  enormous  sense  of  the  com- 
pliment he  paid  her;  she  was  a  woman  of  uncommon  pur- 
posefulness,  and  increased  his  admiration  for  her  by 
the  directness  and  decision  with  which  uncompromisingly 
she  said  him  no.  She  owed  a  loyalty  which  she  could 
never  fully  pay  to  Simcox's,  to  Mr.  Simcox;  that  was  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  her  refusal.  Simcox's  was  her 
own,  her  idea,  her  child  that  daily  she  saw  growing  and 
that  daily  absorbed  her  more :  that  was  the  material  that 
filled  in  and  stiffened  out  the  joints  of  her  refusal.  "  But 
if  you  knew  how  proud  I  am,  Mr.  Sturgiss!  You  don't 
mind  my  refusing?" 

He  laughed  and  rose  to  take  her  to  the  drawing-room. 
"  I  don't  mind  a  bit.  This  is  only  what  they  call  pre- 
liminary overtures.  I  shall  ask  you  again.  We  mean 
to  have  you." 

Between  the  two  rooms  he  said,  "  Yes,  mean  to.  It's 
a  big  thing.  I'm  certain  of  it.  We  shall  keep  it  open 
for  you.  We  shan't  fill  it."  He  put  his  hand  on  the 
drawing-room  door  and  opened  it.     "  We  can't." 

She  went  in  radiant. 

She  was  on  the  red  bus  again,  going  home.  She  had 
stayed  but  the  briefest  time  after  dinner.  She  was  too 
elevated,  too  buoyant,  too  possessed  possibly  to  remain  in 
company;  excitedly  desirous  to  be  alone  with  her  excited 
thoughts,  —  especially  to  be  alone  with  them  in  that  sig- 
nificant apartment  of  hers.  Significant!  Why  upon  the 
very  day  of  entering  it  had  come  this  most  triumphant 
sign  of  its  significance!     Significant!    .    .    . 


THIS  FREEDOM  187 

She  had  a  front  seat  on  the  outside  of  the  omnibus. 
She  gazed  before  her  along  a  path  of  night  that  the  lamps 
jewelled  in  chains  of  gold,  and  streamed  along  it  her  tu- 
multuous thoughts,  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners.  It 
was  very  strange,  and  it  vexed  her,  robbing  her  of  her 
proud  consciousness  of  them,  that  there  obtruded  among 
them,  as  one  plucking  at  her  skirt  —  as  captain  of  them 
she  rode  before  them  —  the  figure  of  Laetitia's  Harry. 
Similarly  he  had  obtruded  and  been  like  to  spoil  the  pleas- 
ure of  her  visit;  but  he  had  been  made  to  provide  com- 
pensations and  he  obtruded  now  only  in  rebirth  of  a  pas- 
sage with  him  that,  rehearsed  again,  much  pleased  her 
even  while,  annoyed,  she  cut  him  down. 

Taking  her  leave,  she  had  been  seen  from  the  threshold 
by  Mr.  Sturgiss  and  by  Laetitia's  Harry.  It  was  pitchy 
dark,  emerging  from  the  brightness  of  the  interior,  and 
he  had  stepped  with  her  to  conduct  her  to  the  gate.  "  It 
was  an  extraordinary  coincidence,  meeting  you  here,"  he 
had  said. 

She  did  not  reply.  His  voice  was  most  strangely  grave 
for  an  observation  so  trite ;  he  might  have  been  speaking 
some  deeply  meditated  thing,  profound,  heavy  with  mean- 
ing, charged  with  fate.  Fatuous !  It  was  extraordinary 
that  there  was  not  an  action  of  his  but  aroused  her  ani- 
mosity. This  vibrant  gravity  of  tone  —  an  organ  used 
for  a  jig,  just  as  his  gifts  were  used  for  his  Laetitia 
moon-calfings  —  caused  newly  a  disturbance  within  her 
against  him.  She  would  have  liked  to  whistle  or  in  some 
equal  way  to  express  indifference  to  his  presence. 

They  were  at  the  gate  and  he  stooped  to  the  latch  and 
appeared  to  have  some  trouble  with  it.  "  Sturgiss  has 
been  telling  me  what  a  wonderful  person  you  are.' 

Again  that  immense  gravity  of  tone.  She  was  aston- 
ished at  the  sudden  surge  of  her  animosity  that  it  caused 
within  her.    She  had  desired  to  express  indifference.     She 


188  THIS  FREEDOM 

desired  now  to  assail.  She  made  a  sneer  of  her  voice. 
"  I  should  have  thought  you  had  ears  for  the  wonder  of 
no  one  but  Laetitia." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

She  felt  her  lip  curl  with  her  malevolence.  "  To  see 
you  raise  your  eyes  and  hear  you  breathe  '  Ah,  Lae- 
titia!'" 

He  opened  the  gate  and  she  passed  out,  tingling. 

It  astounded  her  to  find  herself  a  hundred  yards  gone 
from  the  house,  nay,  now  upon  the  bus  a  mile  and  more 
away,  recalling  it,  trembling  and  with  her  breath  quick- 
ened. It  was  as  if  she  had  been  engaged  in  a  contest  of 
wills,  very  fierce;  nay,  in  a  contest  physical,  a  wrestling. 
She  had  not  known,  she  told  herself,  that  it  was  possible 
to  hate  so.  That  man!  These  men!  She  put  her  eye 
upon  the  bus  driver,  strapped  on  his  perch  so  near  to  her 
that  she  could  have  touched  him,  and  absurdly  in  her 
repugnance  of  his  sex  hated  him  and  shrank  farther  away 
from  him. 

It  was  enormously,  sickeningly  real  to  her,  her  repug- 
nance. Even  on  detached  consideration  of  her  ridiculous 
shrinking  from  the  bus  driver  she  could  not  have  laughed 
at  it.  People  who  had  an  uncontrollable  antipathy  to  cats 
did  not  laugh  at  the  grotesque  puerilities  to  which  it  car- 
ried them.  Nor  she  at  her  antipathy.  "  Of  course  they're 
beasts."  Yes,  the  right  word!  It  was  the  beastliness  of 
sex  that  bottomed  her  loathing. 

She  could  not  have  laughed ;  but  she  could  and  did  with 
a  conscious  intention  of  her  will  put  that  intruder  on  her 
animation  finally  out  of  her  mind.  This  very  joyous  up- 
lifting of  her  spirit,  was  it  not  because,  in  this  world 
dominated  by  men,  based  for  its  fundamental  principle 
upon  play  of  sex  as  commerce  is  based  upon  the  principle 
of  barter,  she  was  assured  of  position,  of  privilege,  and 


THIS  FREEDOM  189 

of  power  that  raised  her  independent  of  such  conventions 
and  such  laws? 

She  was  her  own !  All  her  proud  joys,  her  glad  imag- 
inings, her  delighted  hopes,  arose  amain  and  anew,  tuned 
to  this  cumulative  paean  as  a  flourish  of  trumpets  at  the 
climax  of  a  proclamation.  She  was  intoxicated  on  her 
happiness. 

They  were  come  to  the  lighted  shops  and  the  crowded 
pavements.  The  bus  drew  up  at  the  thronged  corner 
adjacent  to  the  divigation  of  the  Harrow  Road  and  she 
leaned  over  and  watched  the  scene,  smilingly  (for  sheer 
happiness)  looking  down  upon  it,  as  smilingly  (for  her 
triumphant  altitude)  she  felt  that  she  looked  down  upon 
the  world.  She  would  not  have  changed  place  with  any 
life  living  or  that  could  be  lived;  she  was  so  much  aban- 
doned to  her  happiness  that  she  made  the  intention  she 
would  sit  up  in  her  significant  apartment  all  that  night, 
not  to  lose  a  moment  of  it.  She  grudged  that  even  sleep 
upon  her  happiness  should  intrude. 

There  came  one  in  the  traffic  beneath  her  that  caught 
her  attention :  a  woman  whom  people  stood  aside  to  let 
pass  and  turned  to  look  upon  with  grins ;  two  or  three 
urchins  danced  about  the  woman,  pointing  at  her  and 
calling  at  her.  Her  dress  was  disordered,  muddy  all  up 
one  side  as  if  she  had  fallen;  her  face  flushed;  her  hat 
awry;  her  hair  escaped  and  wisped  about  her  eyes  and 
on  her  shoulders.  She  was  drunk.  An  obscene  and  hor- 
rible spectacle,  the  mock  of  her  beholders.  A  horrible 
woman. 

It  was  Keggo. 

Rosalie  caught  her  breath.  She  made  to  rise  but  did 
not  rise.  Keggo  stopped  and  lifted  all  around  a  vacant 
gaze.  Her  eyes  met  Rosalie's  straight  above  her.  She 
lurched  a  step  and  stopped  and  swayed  and  looked  again, 


190  THIS  FREEDOM 

battling  perhaps  with  hints  within  her  fumy  brain  of 
recognition.  RosaHe  made  again  to  rise  to  go  to  her  and 
again  did  not  rise.  The  bus  moved  forward.  That 
wretched  woman,  making  as  if  to  pursue  her  aroused  be- 
fuddlement,  turned  about  to  follow  and  came  a  few  steps, 
lurching  like  a  ship  that  foundered.  The  light  blazed 
down  upon  her  upturned  face.  She  lurched  into  some 
shadow  and,  as  wreckage  swallowed  up  in  the  trough  of 
the  sea,  her  face  was  gone. 

Lurching  ...  as  a  ship  .  .  .  that  foundered.  There 
was  in  Rosalie's  mind  some  dim  memory  struggling. 
Lurching  ...  as  a  ship  ...  in  the  darkness  ...  in 
the  night.  And  her  face  .  .  .  seen  and  gone  ...  as  a 
ship  .  .  .  labouring  ...  as  a  ship  .  .  . 

Ah! 

Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each  other  in  passing ; 
Only  a  signal  shown  and  a  distant  voice  in  the  darkness. 

It  came  to  Rosalie  complete  and  word  for  word;  and 
with  perfect  clearness,  as  though  she  saw  and  sensed 
them,  all  its  attendant  circumstances :  the  attic  room  at 
the  Sultana's,  the  strange  smell  mingled  with  the  smell 
of  the  oil  lamp,  Keggo  in  the  wicker  chair,  she  beside  her, 
her  head  against  Keggo' s  knee;  and  Keggo' s  voice  re- 
citing the  lines  and  her  young,  protesting,  loving  cry, 
"O  keggo!" 

She  saw  it,  sensed  it,  heard  it  —  and  stonily  regarded 
it.  A  thing  to  weep  at,  she  knew  it ;  but  did  not  weep.  A 
thing  to  stab  her,  it  ought  to;  but  did  not  stab.  What 
good  could  she  do?  Suppose  she  had  got  up  and  gone 
down ;  suppose  she  now  got  up  and  went  down  and  went 
back?  What  good?  All  sentimentality  that.  Be  sen- 
sible! If  a  thousand  pounds  would  do  Keggo  any  good, 
and  if  she  had  a  thousand  pounds,  freely  and  gladly  she 


THIS  FREEDOM  191 

would  give  the  last  penny  of  it.  But  to  get  down,  to  have 
got  down,  what  could  she  have  done?  Why  should  she 
worry  about  her?  Keggo  had  had  her  chance.  Every- 
body had  their  chance.  She  now  had  hers.  Why  should 
she  .  .  . 

She  never  saw  Keggo  again. 


CHAPTER    X 

She  had  not  good  health  in  the  week  immediately  fol- 
lowing that  great  day.  She  did  not  feel  well.  She  did 
not  look  very  well.  Mr.  Simcox,  profoundly  sympa- 
thetic to  every  mood  of  her  who  was  at  once  his  protege 
and  his  support,  told  her  he  thought  she  had  been  over- 
doing it.  She  seized  upon  that  excuse  and  tried  to  per- 
suade herself  that  perhaps  she  had;  or,  which  amounted 
to  the  same  thing,  that  she  was  suffering  from  the  revul- 
sion of  those  huge  excitements.  But  she  did  not  persuade 
herself.  Her  malaise,  whatever  it  was,  was  not  of  that 
kind.  Its  manifestations  were  not  in  lassitude  or  sense 
of  disability.  They  were  in  a  curious  dis-ease  whose  oc- 
casion was  not  to  be  defined ;  in  a  consuming  restlessness 
beneath  whose  goad  even  the  significant  apartment  had 
not  power  to  charm  and  hold  her;  in  a  certain  feverish- 
ness  whose  exsiccative  heat,  leaving  her  palms  and  tem- 
ples cool  (she  sometimes  felt  them  and  had  surprise) 
caused  inwardly  a  dry  burning  that  made  her  long  for 
quiet  places. 

She  could  not  settle  to  anything.  Her  limbs,  and  they 
had  their  way,  desired  not  to  rest;  her  mind,  and  it  de- 
posed her  captaincy,  would  cast  no  anchor. 

Mr.  Simcox,  as  the  week  drew  on,  suggested  a  week- 
end at  home.  It  had  occurred  to  her,  very  attractively, 
but  she  had  negatived  it.  Aunt  Belle  (before  the  idea 
had  come  to  her)  had  written  an  invitation  to  one  of  the 
Saturday  dinners  in  which  she  had  "  most  particularly, 
my  dear  child  "  desired  her  presence.  Something  most 
delightful  was  going  to  happen  and  she  must  be  there. 


THIS  FREEDOM  193 

She  had  accepted  and  she  later  told  herself  she  did  not 
like  to  refuse.  She  knew,  instantly  as  she  read,  what  was 
the  identity  of  this  delightful  thing  that  was  to  happen 
and  she  decided,  with  a  sharp  turn  within  her  of  some 
emotion,  that  certainly  she  would  be  there.  To  whet  her 
scorn  1  She  was  thereafter  much  aggravated  that  her 
drifting  mind,  against  her  wish,  swayed  constantly  to- 
wards it  sometimes  with  that  same  sharp  turn  of  that 
same  emotion  (nameless  to  her  and  without  meaning) 
always  with  aggravation  of  her  restlessness,  of  her  fever, 
of  her  dis-ease.  When  came  Mr.  Simcox's  suggestion 
of  the  week-end  at  home  she  decided,  as  swiftly  as  she 
had  first  accepted,  to  revoke  her  acceptance.  She  would 
not  be  there !     She  would  not  —  waste  her  scorn ! 

Impatient  for  movement,  she  that  evening  went  to  the 
splendid  house  in  Pilchester  Square  to  tell  her  with- 
drawal. This  most  exasperating  dis-ease  of  hers !  Now 
that  she  was  come  to  change  her  mind  she  did  not  want 
to  change  her  mind.  It  was  like  going  to  the  dentist  with 
an  aching  tooth.  On  his  doorstep  the  tooth  does  not 
ache.  Her  governance  of  herself  was  by  her  malaise  so 
shaken  that  positively,  as  she  came  into  Aunt  Belle's 
presence,  she  did  not  know  whether  she  was  going  to 
withdraw  or  to  confirm  her  acceptance  of  the  invitation. 

Most  comfortingly.  Aunt  Belle  saved  her  the  decision. 
"  My  dear  child !  How  unexpected !  How  opportune ! 
I  was  just  writing  to  you.  Our  little  dinner  is  put  off! 
Sit  here  while  I  tell  you.  Now  would  you  like  anything, 
dear  child?  A  piece  of  cake?  Some  nice  fruit?  To 
please  me.  Really,  no?  Well,  now;  our  dinner  that  I 
so  especially  wanted  you  for  —  did  you  guess  ?  " 

She  began  to  tell. 

She  told  what  Rosalie  had  perfectly  well  known.  The 
delightful  thing  expected  to  happen  was  Harry  Oc- 
cleve's  proposal  of  marriage  to  darling  Laetitia.     There 


194  THIS  FREEDOM 

had  been  certain  signs  and  portents.  They  had  come  at 
last.  Their  meaning  was  perfectly  clear.  There  was  not 
the  least  doubt  that  at  the  next  meeting  Harry  would  ask 
Laetitia's  hand.  Not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt!  Aunt 
Belle  knew  all  the  signs !  Every  woman  of  Aunt  Belle's 
experience  knew  them,  dear  child.  So  Harry  had  been 
asked  for  this  dinner;  a  meaningly  written  letter,  dear 
child,  to  encourage  him,  the  dear,  poor  fellow !  And  had 
accepted,  in  terms  so  meaning  too,  the  dear,  devoted  fel- 
low.    Then 

"But,  Aunt  Belle " 


"  Listen,  dear  child.  Then  he  suddenly  wTote  saying 
he  found  he  had  made  a  mistake " 

"  Made  a  mistake!  "  The  words  went  out  from  Rosalie 
in  a  small  cry. 

"  Dear  child,  it  is  nothing.  How  sweet  to  be  so  con- 
cerned !  It  is  nothing,  it  is  the  best  of  signs.  Made  a 
mistake  that  he  was  disengaged  for  Saturday.  The  dear, 
devoted  fellow  was  so  absurdly  vague  about  it.  Un- 
avoidable circumstances  prevented  him;  that  was  all;  his 
writing  and  all  the  appearance  of  his  letter  so  delightfully 
distracted !  How  amused  we  were,  your  Uncle  Pyke  and 
I !  How  amused,  and  how  we  felt  for  the  dear,  devoted 
fellow !  Screwing  up  his  courage !  How  we  remembered 
our  own  courtship!  You  should  hear  your  Uncle  Pyke 
tell  how  he  had  to  screw  up  his  courage  to  propose  to  me 
and  how  many  times  it  failed  him  and  he  fled.  Dear 
child,  you've  no  idea  how  ridiculous  these  poor  men  are 
in  their  love !  How  timorous !  How  they  suffer !  The 
dear,  poor  fellows.  Your  Uncle  Pyke  wrote  him  at  once 
a  most  kind  and  meaning  letter  —  accepting  his  unfore- 
seen circumstances  (he  had  to,  of  course)  and  positively 
fixing  him  for  Monday  instead.  "  Laetitia  is  expecting 
yon,  "  your  Uncle  Pyke  wrote.  The  dear  fellow !  How 
happy  it  will  make  him !     So  it  is  Monday,  dear  child. 


THIS  FREEDOM  195 

Monday,  instead.  We  do  so  want  you  to  be  there.  I  do 
so  want  you,  and  so  does  my  darling,  to  be  the  first  to 
congratulate  her.  And  you  shall  be  a  bridesmaid !  Won't 
that  be  nice?  Kiss  me,  dear  child.  I  shall  never  forget 
your  sweet  concern  before  I  told  you  his  excuse  meant 
nothing.     Dear  child,  you  look  startled  yet." 

There  was  only  a  faint  voice  that  came  to  Rosalie's 
lips.     "  Really  nothing,  Aunt  Belle?  " 

"  Dear  child,  nothing  at  all." 

She  went  down  to  the  Rectory  on  Saturday  and  found 
herself  more  glad  to  be  there  and  to  be  with  her  mother 
than  she  had  ever  been.  When  she  greeted  her  mother, 
"  Kiss  me  again,  dear,  small  mother,"  she  cried  and  put 
her  cheek  against  her  mother's  and  held  it  there  some 
moments,  rather  fiercely  and  with  her  eyes  closed,  as 
though  there  were  in  that  contact  some  febrifuge  that 
abated  her  inward  fever,  some  mooring  whereto,  adrift, 
her  mind  made  fast. 

What  beset  her?  What  was  the  matter  with  her? 
What  worked  within  her?  Feverishly  she  inquired  of 
herself,  seeking  to  analyse  her  case;  but  she  could  by  no 
means  inform  herself;  her  case  was  not  within  what  diag- 
nosis she  could  summon.  What?  Near  as  she  could  get 
she  had  the  feeling,  nay,  the  wild  longing,  to  get  out:  out 
of  what?  She  did  not  know.  To  get  away:  away  from 
what?    She  could  not  say. 

She  found  in  herself  a  great  and  an  unusual  tenderness 
towards  the  home  life.  Only  her  mother  and  her  father; 
were  now  at  home.  Harold  was  at  a  branch  of  his  bank 
in  Shanghai.  Robert  was  in  Canada.  Flora  was  in 
India,  married,  with  two  small  children.  Hilda  was  in 
Devonshire,  married  to  a  doctor.  These  things  had  hap- 
pened, these  flights  been  winged,  and  she  had  taken  but 
the  smallest  interest  in  them.     She  had  had  her  own  af- 


196  THIS  FREEDOM 

fairs.  She  had  had  herself  to  think  of.  She  had  lost 
touch  with  her  brothers  and  sisters.  She  scarcely  ever 
thought  about  them.  Now  she  wanted  very  much  to 
hear  about  them.  What  news  of  them  was  there  ?  How 
were  they  getting  on  ?  She  did  want  —  she  could  fix 
that  much  of  her  state,  or  it  presented  a  relief  for  her 
state  —  she  did  want  to  feel  that  she  belonged  to  them 
and  they  to  her.  She  noticed  with  a  large  whelming  of 
pity  how  very  small  her  mother  seemed  to  have  grown 
She  was  always  small,  but  now  —  much  smaller,  fallen 
in,  very  fragile.  She  noticed  with  a  quick  pang  how  all 
her  father's  violent  blackness  of  hair,  and  violent  red  of 
colouring,  and  violent  glint  of  eye  and  violent  energy  of 
gesture  were  faded,  greyed,  dimmed,  devitalized  to  a  hue 
and  to  an  air  that  was  all  one  and  lustreless,  as  if  he 
had  gone  in  a  pond  covered,  not  with  duckweed  but  with 
lichen,  and  had  come  out,  not  dripping,  but  limp  and 
shrouded  head  to  foot  in  scaly  grey.  Was  it  possible 
that  all  this  had  been  so  when  she  was  last  here?  She 
had  not  noticed  it.  She  noticed  that  both  her  dear  mother 
and  her  father  walked  on  the  flat  soles  of  their  feet,  and 
touched  articles  of  furniture  as  they  trod,  heavily,  across 
the  room.  A  most  frightful  tenderness  towards  them 
possessed  her.  She  wanted  like  anything  to  show  them 
devotion  and,  most  frightfully,  to  receive  from  them 
signs  of  devotion  to  her  —  to  be  able  to  feel  she  was 
theirs,  and  they  hers.     She  wanted  it  terribly. 

But  what  else  did  she  want?  What?  They  gave  her, 
all  the  home  talk,  but  soon  it  flagged  and  whatever  in  her 
desired  satisfaction  still  gnawed  within  her  and  was  un- 
satisfied; she  ministered  to  them  and  they  were  pleased 
but  they  seemed  very  quickly  tired ;  they  had  their  accus- 
tomed hours  and  habits,  and  whatever  it  w^as  in  her  that 
found  relief  in  solicitude  still  tossed  within  her  and  was 
not  relieved.     What  beset  her?     What? 


THIS  FREEDOM  197 

Monday  came.  She  was  at  this  dinner,  this  festival 
for  the  consummation  and  celebration  of  the  betrothal  of 
beautiful  Laetitia  and  Laetitia's  darling  Harry.  That 
sick  dis-ease  of  hers  had  wonderfully  vanished  when  she 
came  into  the  house,  when  she  was  hugged  fit  to  crack 
her  to  Aunt  Belle's  bosom  with  "  Dear  child !  Dear 
child!  He's  just  arrived!  He's  with  your  uncle  down- 
stairs. Look  at  Laetitia!  Lovely!  Isn't  she  lovely? 
Kiss  me  again,  again,  dear  child !  "  When  she  was  floated 
to  by  Laetitia,  exquisitely  arrayed,  pink  and  white,  doll- 
faced,  doll-headed,  squeaking  with  coquettish  glee,  "  Ro- 
salie! Darling!  Isn't  this  awful?  Imagine  it  for  me, 
Rosalie !  It  oughtn't  to  have  been  planned  like  this,  ought 
it?  Do  tell  darling  mamma  it  ought  not  to  have  been! 
I'm  trembling.     Wouldn't  you  be?" 

Yes,  gone  that  sick  dis-ease.  How  at  this  spectacle 
suffer  dis-ease,  or  any  other  disturbance  of  the  emotions 
save  only  disgust,  contempt  at  such  a  horrid  preparation 
for  such  a  horrid  rite.  Excited  responsiveness  to  their 
most  friendly  excitation  was  not  needed  in  her  for  it  was 
not  expected.  "  The  shy,  quiet  thing  you  always  are, 
dear  child,"  Aunt  Belle  often  used  to  say  to  her  and  said 
now.  (And  within  the  week  was  to  beat  her  breast  in 
that  same  drawing-room  and  cry  with  an  exceeding  bitter 
cry,  "  Shy !  We  thought  her  shy !  Sly !  Sly !  Sly  to 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  the  wicked  girl!  ") 

So  she  need  respond  with  no  more  than  her  normal 
quiet  smile,  her  normal  tone,  in  their  presence,  of  poor- 
relation  deference  and  awe.  So  behind  that  mask  could 
curl  her  lip  and  shudder  in  the  refinements  of  her  views 
at  this  most  horrid  preparation  for  this  most  horrid  rite. 
And  did.  That  dis-ease  strangely  fled,  there  came  to  her 
the  swift  belief  that  here,  and  she  had  not  known  it!  — 
was  that  dis-ease's  cause.  It  was  the  anticipation  of  this 
exhibition  of  all  the  things  she  hated  most,  of  the  most 


198  THIS  FREEDOM 

glaring  presentiment  of  outrage  of  all  her  strongest  prin- 
ciples. This  Laetitia,  embodiment  of  useless  woman- 
hood, launching  herself  on  that  disgusting  dependence  on 
a  man  that  soon  would  strand  her  among  the  derelicts; 
and  that  Laetitia' s  Harry,  that  might  have  been  a  man 
among  men,  coming  to  the  apotheosis  of  his  languishing 
to  —  oh,  wreathed,  fatted  calf  with  gilded  horns ! 

Yes,  it  was  this  had  vexed  her  so;  and  suddenly  in- 
formed of  the  seat  of  her  injury  she  turned  upon  it  dis- 
gust and  scorn  such  as  never  before  had  she  felt  (and  she; 
had  felt  it  always)  for  the  whole  order  of  things  for 
which  it  stood.  She  felt  her  very  blood  run  acid,  causing 
her  to  twist,  in  her  acid  contempt  for  the  subservience  of 
women,  and  most  of  all  for  that  Laetitia's  subservience, 
floated  on  that  ghastly  coquetry  like  a  shifting  cargo  that 
in  the  first  gale  will  capsize  the  ship;  she  felt  her  very 
temples  throb,  and  almost  thought  they  must  be  heard,  in 
her  fierce  detestation  of  all  the  masculinity  of  men  and 
most  of  all  —  yes,  with  a  flash  of  eye  she  could  not  stay 
and  hoped  that  he  could  see  —  that  fatuous  Harry's  mas- 
culinity. 

He  came  into  the  room  —  looked  pale  —  poor  calf  !  — 
and  went,  with  a  nervous  halt  in  his  walk  —  sick  fool !  — 
to  his  Laetitia;  and  looked  across  at  Rosalie  and  made  a 
half-step  to  her;  and  she  thought  with  all  her  force,  to 
send  it  to  him,  her  last  words  to  him :  that  most  malev- 
olent, "  to  see  you  raise  your  eyes  and  hear  you  breathe.. 
'Ah,  Laetitia'  ";  and  surely  sent  it,  for  on  that  half-step 
towards  her  he  stopped,  hesitated,  and  turned  and  en- 
gaged Laetitia  again. 

She  had  told  herself,  leaving  the  Sturgiss's  house  that 
night  a  week  ago,  that  she  had  not  believed  it  possible 
to  hate  a  man  so.  Now !  Why  that  was  not  hate ;  that, 
compared  with  the  inimity  that  now  consumed  her,  was 
a  mere  chill  indifference.    And  it  had  made  her  tremble! 


THIS  FREEDOM  199 

She  was  rigid  now.  Stiff  with  hate !  He  personified  for 
her  all  in  life  against  which  she  was  in  rebellion,  all  in 
life  that  her  soul  abhorred;  and  while,  in  the  moments 
before  dinner,  grunting  Uncle  Pyke  and  rallying  Aunt 
Belle  and  coquetting  Laetitia  crowded  about  him,  leaving 
her  alone  and  far  apart,  she,  for  the  reason  that  it  gave 
to  her  hate,  and  for  the  example  that  stood  before  her 
eyes,  reviewed  again  her  theories  of  life  and  again  pledged 
herself  in  their  support.   .  .  . 

"  Dinner  is  served."  That  group  went  laughing  to  the 
door,  she  followed.  "  No,  no,  my  boy.  Don't  stand  on 
ceremony.  Pass  along  as  we  come.  Why,  hang  it,  man, 
we  regard  you  as  one  of  the  family!  Ha!  ha!  haw!" 
Down  the  stairs  in  a  body,  she  following.  There  is,  from 
their  conversation,  something  the  wreathed  calf  is  to  get, 
from  his  coat  to  bring  to  show  them,  a  letter  or  a  token 
or  something.  The  dining-room  is  to  the  front  on  the 
ground  floor.  The  coats  hang  in  the  hall,  a  narrow  pas- 
sage there,  that  runs  back  to  Uncle  Pyke's  study.  They 
are  down.  "  Shall  I  get  it  now ?  "  "  Yes,  bring  it  along; 
bring  it  along,  my  boy."  "  And  Rosalie  "  (Aunt  Belle), 
"  my  fan,  dear  child.  Dear  child,  I  left  it  on  the  table 
in  Uncle  Pyke's  den.     You  will  ?     Dear  child !  " 

They  pass  in.  The  gilded  calf  turns  from  them  for 
what  it  is  he  is  to  fetch  from  his  coat ;  she  slips  by  him 
to  the  study  and  takes  up  the  fan  and  comes  with  it  again. 

It  is  dim  in  the  passage.  A  condition  on  which  gener- 
ous Uncle  Pyke  years  before  installed  this  wonderful 
electric  light  that  you  flick  on  and  flick  off  as  you  require 
it  was  that  it  should  always  be  flicked  off  when  you  did 
not  require  it.  Now  as  Rosalie  came  from  the  study  the 
passage  was  lit  only  by  the  shaft  of  light  that  gleamed 
from  the  dining-room  door;  its  only  sound  Aunt  Belle's 
noisy  chatter  from  the  waiting  table. 

He  was  fumbling  at  the  coats,  standing  there  sharply 


200  THIS  FREEDOM 

outlined  against  the  stream  of  light,  his  face  cut  on  it  in 
a  perfect  silhouette.  She  had  to  pass  him.  That  hateful 
he.  She  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  that  same  trembling 
that  had  shaken  her  after  the  passage  between  them  at 
the  gate  on  Shoot  Up  Hill.  It  shook  her  now,  dread- 
fully. Her  knees  trembled.  She  felt  faint.  Awful  to 
hate  so!  She  was  quite  close,  almost  touching  him.  It 
was  necessary  he  should  move,  forward  or  back,  to  give 
her  room.  But  he  did  not  move.  His  hands,  outstretched 
before  him  on  the  coats,  and  sharp  against  the  light,  ap- 
peared to  her  to  be  shaking;  but  that  was  the  hallucina- 
tion of  this  frightful  trembling  that  possessed  her.  She 
tried  to  say,  "If  you  please  — ,"  but,  dreadfully,  had 
no  voice;  but  made  some  sound;  and  he,  most  slowly, 
drew  back.     It  was  before  him  that  she  had  to  pass. 

She  advanced;  and  felt,  as  if  she  saw  it,  the  intensity  of 
the  gaze  of  his  eyes  upon  her;  and  saw,  as  if  the  place 
were  light  and  her  look  not  averted,  his  "  marching  "  face 
and  those  lines  radiating  to  his  temples  (horizon  tracks) 
where  the  faint  touch  of  greyness  was;  and  suddenly 
had  upon  her  senses,  with  an  extraordinary  pungency, 
causing  them  to  swim,  that  odd,  nice  smell  there  was 
about  him  of  mingled  peat  and  soap  and  fresh  tobacco, 
of  tweed  and  heather  and  the  sea. 

She  caught  her  breath  .  .  . 

The  thing's  too  poignant  for  the  words  a  man  has. 

She  was  caught  in  his  arms,  terribly  enfolding  her. 
He  was  crying  in  her  ears,  passionately,  triumphantly, 
"Rosalie!  Rosalie!"  She  was  in  his  arms.  Those 
long,  strong  arms  of  his  were  round  her;  and  she  was 
caught  against  his  heart,  her  face  upturned  to  his,  his 
face  against  her  own;  and  she  was  swooning,  falling 
through  incredible  spaces,  drowning  in  incredible  seas, 
sinking  through  incredible  blackness;  and  in  her  ears  hi^ 
voice,  coming  to  her  in  her  extremity  like  the  beat  of  a 


THIS  FREEDOM  201 

wing  in  the  night,  hke  the  first  pulsing  roll  of  music 
enormously  remote,  "  Rosalie !     Rosalie !  " 

The  thing's  too  poignant  for  the  words  one  has.  This 
girl's  extremity  was  very  great,  not  to  be  set  in  words. 
Words  cannot  bring  to  earth  that  which,  ethereal,  defies 
our  comprehension  as  life  and  death  defy  it  and,  like  life 
and  death,  to  our  comprehension  only  sublimely  IS. 
Words  only  can  say  her  spirit,  bursting  from  bondage, 
streamed  up  to  cleave  to  his;  how  tell  the  anguish,  how 
the  ecstasy?  Words  only  can  say  her  spirit,  like  a  live 
part  of  her  drawn  out  of  her,  seemed  to  be  rushing  up- 
wards from  her  body  to  her  lips :  words  cannot  tell  the 
anguish  that  was  bliss,  the  rapture  that  was  pain.  Only 
can  say  that  she  was  in  his  arms,  her  heart  to  his,  his  lips 
against  her  own :  and  cannot  tell  — 

But  also  it  is  to  be  accounted  to  her  for  her  extremity 
that  herein  all  her  life's  habit  was  delivered  over  by  her 
to  betrayal. 


CHAPTER  XI 

He  was  saying,  "  We  must  go  in.     Can  you  go  in?  '" 
She  breathed,  "  I  can." 

That  dinner!  That  after-dinner  in  the  drawing-room 
upstairs !  It  is  a  nightmare  to  be  imagined,  not  to  be 
described.  Imagine  walking  from  the  darkness  and  the 
frightful  secret  of  the  passage  into  the  blazing  dazzle  and 
the  glittering  eyes  of  the  resplendent  dinner  party !  They, 
in  Harry's  absence,  have  been  exchanging  the  last  private 
nods  and  flashes.  "  Soon!  Soon!  "  they  have  been  nod- 
ding to  one  another.  Uncle  Pyke,  licking  his  chops  an- 
ticipatorily  of  his  bath  in  his  soup,  has  been  licking  them 
also  in  relish  of  working  off  his  daughter  in  this  excel- 
lent match ;  Aunt  Belle,  kind,  kind  Aunt  Belle,  with  a  last 
satisfied  eye  about  the  appointments  of  the  table,  has  pat- 
ted her  Laetitia's  hand  and  conveyed  to  her,  "  Soon,  soon, 
darling;  soon,  soon!"  Beautiful  Laetitia  has  given  a 
gentle,  glad  squeeze  to  the  patting  hand  and  smiled  a 
lovely,  happy,  certain  smile.  **  Soon !  Soon  !  "  has  gone 
the  jolly  signal  —  and  it  is  not  going  to  be  soon,  nor 
late;  it  is  never,  never  going  to  happen;  and  worse  than 
never  happen! 

Worse  than  never  happen !  That's  it.  That  is  the 
awful  knowledge  of  awful  guilt  with  which  Rosalie  sits 
there  and  freezes  in  guilty  agony  at  every  pause  in  the 
conversation  and  could  scream  to  notice  how  the  pauses 
grow  longer  and  longer,  more  frequent  and  more  fre- 
quent yet.  There's  a  frightful  constraint,  a  chilly, 
creepy   dread  fulness   steals   about  the  party.     They  go 


THIS  FREEDOM  203 

upstairs  —  Aunt  Belle  and  Rosalie  and  beautiful  Lae- 
titia  —  and  the  constraint  goes  with  them.'  They  sit  and 
stare  and  hardly  a  word  said.  Something's  up !  What's 
up?  What's  the  matter  with  everything?  Wliy  is  every- 
thing hanging  like  this !  What's  up?  And  the  men  come 
in  —  Uncle  Pyke  swollen  with  food,  swollen  with  indi- 
gestion, swollen  with  baffled  perplexity  and  ferocious  ir- 
ritation ;  and  Harry  —  she  dare  not  look  at  Harry  —  and 
the  thing  is  worse,  the  aw  fulness  more  awful.  Glances 
go  shooting  round  the  awful  silences  —  Uncle  Pyke's 
atrabilious  eye  in  the  burning  fiery  furnace  of  his  swollen 
face  is  a  stupendous  note  of  interrogation  directed  upon 
Aunt  Belle;  Aunt  Belle's  eyebrows  arch  to  scalp  and  ap- 
pear likely  to  disappear  into  her  scalp  and  remain  there 
in  the  effort  to  express,  "  I  don't  know !  /  can't 
imagine !  " ;  Laetitia  —  Laetitia's  eyes  upon  her  mother 
are  as  a  spaniel's  upon  one  devouring  meat  at  table. 

Frightfulness  more  frightful,  awfulness  more  awful; 
in  Rosalie  almost  now  beyond  control  the  desire  to 
scream,  or  to  burst  into  tears  or  wildly  into  laughter. 
Then  she  knows  herself  upon  her  feet  and  hears  her 
voice :  "  Aunt  Belle.  I  must  go,  I  think.  I  think  I  am 
very  tired  to-night."' 

They  suffer  her  to  go. 

That's  all  a  nightmare;  but,  when  the  door  is  closed 
upon  them,  like  a  nightmare  gone.  She  was  alone  upon 
the  staircase  and  then  down  in  the  hall  —  by  those  coats ! 
—  and,  as  though  no  ghastly  interval  had  been,  the  amaz- 
ing and  beloved  moment  was  returned  to  her.  Out  of  a 
nightmare  into  a  dream!  She  stood  in  her  dream  a 
moment  —  two  moments  —  three  —  by  the  hall  door. 
Who  till  that  evening  never  had  thought  of  love,  aston- 
ishingly was  invested  with  all  love's  darling  cunning. 
She  felt  somehow  he  would  see  her  again  before  she  left; 
and  love's  dear  cunning  told  her  right.    He  came  swiftly 


204  THIS  FREEDOM 

down  the  stairs.  She  never  knew  on  what  pretext  he  had 
left  the  room.  He  came  to  her.  Love  loves  these 
snatched  moments  and  always  makes  them  snatched  to 
breathlessness.  She  opened  the  door  and  must  be  gone. 
She  said  to  him,  speaking  first,  "  Oh,  we  were  vile  ir^ 
there  !     How  vile  we  were !  " 

It  was,  the  intimacy  and  the  abruptness  of  it,  the  per- 
fect comprehension  that  their  thoughts  were  shared,  as 
if  they  had  known  and  loved  for  years. 

He  caught  her  hand.  ''  My  conspirator !  My  secret- 
sharer!  " 

She  gave  him  her  heart  in  her  eyes. 

He  said,  "  To-morrow,  I  will  come  to  you." 

She  disengaged  her  hand. 

He  gave  a  swift  look  all  about  and  caught  her  in  his 
arms.     "  You  must  tell  me,  my  Rosalie.     Tell  me." 

She  breathed,  "  You  knew,  before  I  knew,  that  I  loved 
you." 

When  she  was  home  and  got  to  her  room  she  un- 
dressed, suffering  her  clothes  to  lie  as  they  slipped  from 
her.  She  got  into  bed,  moving  there  and  then  lying  there; 
as  one  in  trance. 

Cataclysm !  All  she  had  been,  all  she  had  determined 
—  all,  all  gone ;  all  nothing,  surrendered  all.  At  a  touch, 
in  a  moment,  without  a  cry,  without  a  shot,  without  a 
stroke,  all  her  life's  habit  swept  away.  All  she  had  been, 
all  she'd  designed,  all  she  had  built  within  herself  and 
walled  about  herself,  all  she  had  scorned,  all  that  with  a 
violent  antipathy  she  had  shuddered  from  or  with  curled 
lip  spurned  away,  —  all,  all  betrayed,  breached,  mined, 
calamitously  riven,  tumultously  sundered,  burst  away. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow  and  began  to  cry  — 
most  frightfully. 

It  was  very  terrible  for  Rosalie. 


PART  THREE 
HOUSE  OF  CHILDREN 


CHAPTER  I 

There's  none  so  sick  as,  brought  to  bed,  that  robust 
he  that  ever  has  scorned  sickness;  nor  any  sinner  hke  a 
saint  suddenly  gone  from  saintliness  to  sin;  and  there 
can  be  no  love  like  love  suddenly  leapt  from  repression 
into  being. 

Rosalie,  that  had  abhorred  the  very  name  of  love,  now 
finding  love  was  quite  consumed  by  love.  She  loved  him 
so!  Even  to  herself  she  never  could  express  how  tre- 
mendous a  thing  to  her  their  love  was.  She  used  delib- 
erately to  call  it  to  her  mind  (as  the  new,  rapt  possessor 
of  a  jewel  going  specially  to  the  case  to  peep  and  gloat 
again)  and  when  she  called  it  up  like  that,  or  when,  in 
the  midst  of  occupation,  her  mind  secretly  opened  a  door 
and  she  turned  and  saw  it  there,  a  surge,  physically  felt, 
passed  through  her,  and  she  would  nearly  gasp,  her  breath 
taken  by  this  new,  this  rapturous  element,  as  the  bather's 
at  his  first  plunge  in  the  cold,  the  splendid  sea. 

She  loved  him  so !  She  looked  at  him  with  eyes,  not  of 
an  inexperienced  girl  blinded  by  love,  but  of  one  cynically 
familiar  with  the  traits  of  common  men,  intolerantly 
prejudiced,  sharply  susceptible  to  every  note  or  motion  of 
displeasing  quality;  and  her  eyes  told  her  heart,  and  what 
is  much  more  told  her  mind,  that  nothing  but  sheer  per- 
fection was  here.  Harry  was  brilliantly  talented,  Harry 
was  in  face  and  form  one  that  took  the  eye  among  a 
hundred  men.  But  she  had  known  all  that  and  freely 
granted  him  all  that  before.  What  she  found  as  she 
came  to  know  him,  and  when  they  were  married  what 
she  continued  to  find,  was  simply,  that  he  was  perfect. 


208  THIS  FREEDOM 

He  was  perfect  in  every  way  and  there  was  no  way  in 
which,  incHning  neither  to  the  too  much  nor  the  too  little, 
he  was  not  perfect. 

The  labour  of  a  catalogue  of  her  Harry's  virtues  is 
thus  discounted.  Name  a  virtue  in  a  man  and  it  was 
Harry's.  Declare  too  much  perfection  is  as  ill  to  live  with 
as  too  much  fault,  and  it  is  precisely  just  before  too  much 
is  reached  that  Harry's  dowry  stopped.  Suggest  she  wag 
blind  to  defects,  and  it  is  to  be  answered  that  there  was 
no  man  who  knew  him  that  ever  had  a  thought  against 
him  (except  Uncle  Pyke,  Colonel  Pyke  Pounce,  R.E., 
who,  justifiably,  was  warned  by  his  physician  never  to 
think  upon  the  monster  lest  apoplexy  should  supervene) 
nor  any  fellow  man  in  his  profession  (and  that  is  the 
supreme  test)  that  ever  grudged  him  his  success.  Dis- 
gruntled barristers,  morosely  brooding  upon  the  fall  of 
plums  into  other  mouths  than  theirs,  always  said,  when 
it  was  Harry's  mouth:  "Ah,  Occleve :  yes,  but  he's  dif- 
ferent.    No  one  grudges  Harry  Occleve  what  he  gets." 

Different !  In  Rosalie's  fond,  fondest  love  for  him  she 
often  used  to  hug  her  love  by  making  that  catalogue  of 
all  his  parts  that  has  been  shown  not  to  be  necessary. 
And  it  was  the  little,  tiny  things  wherein  he  differed 
from  common  men  that  especially  she  cherished.  By  the 
deepest  part  of  her  nature  terribly  susceptible  to  the 
grosser  manifestations  of  the  male  habit,  it  was  extraor- 
dinarily wonderful  and  delicious  to  her  that  Harry  of 
these  had  none.  In  an  age  much  given  to  easy  freedom 
of  language  it  will  not  be  appreciated,  it  perhaps  will 
cause  the  pair  of  them  to  be  sneered  at,  but  it  demands 
mention  as  illuminating  a  characteristic  of  hers  (and  of 
his),  that  she  had,  for  instance,  especial  delight  in  the 
fact  that  Harry  never  even  swore.  The  impossible  test 
in  the  matter  of  self-command  is  when  a  man  hits  his 
thumb  with  a  hammer.     What  does  a  bishop  say  when 


THIS  FREEDOM  209 

he  does  that?  But  she  saw  Harry  catch  his  thumb  a 
proper  crack  hanging  a  picture  in  the  house  they  took, 
and,  "  Mice  and  Mumps !  "  cried  Harry,  and  dropped  the 
hammer  and  the  picture,  and  jumped  off  the  stepladder, 
and  did  a  hop,  and  wrung  his  hand,  and  laughed  at  her 
and  wrung  his  hand  and  laughed  again.  "  Mice  and 
Mumps !  " 

"Mice  and  Mumps!"  It  always  seemed  to  her  to 
characterise  and  to  epitomise  him,  that  grotesque  expres- 
sion. It  always  made  her  laugh;  and  the  more  serious 
the  accident  or  the  dilemma  that  brought  it  to  Harry's 
lips,  the  more,  by  bathos,  one  was  forced  to  laugh  and 
the  seriousness  thereby  dissipated  into  an  affair  not  se- 
rious at  all.  Yes,  that  was  the  point  of  it  and  the  reason 
it  epitomised  him.  There  was  none  of  life's  dilemmas  — 
little  dilemmas  that  irritate  ordinary  people  or  in  which 
ordinary  people  display  themselves  pusillanimous;  or 
tragic  dilemmas  that  find  ordinary  people  wanting  and 
leave  them  in  vacillation  and  despair  —  there  was  none 
of  any  sort  that  Harry,  receiving  with  his  comic,  "  Mice 
and  Mumps!  Mice  and  Mumps,  old  girl!  "  did  not  re- 
ceive with  the  assurance  to  her  that,  though  this  was  a 
nuisance,  he  had  metal  and  to  spare  to  settle  such;  that, 
though  this  was  a  catastrophe,  a  facer,  he'd  too. much 
courage,  too  much  high,  brave  spirit  for  it  to  discommode 
him;  there  was  no  fight  in  such,  he  was  captain  of  such, 
trust  him ! 

"  One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast 
forward." 

That  was  Harry! 

"  Mice  and  Mumps !  "  On  the  evening  of  the  day  fol- 
lowing that  astounding  betrothal  of  theirs,  affianced  as  it 
were  at  a  blow  —  a  day  spent  together  in  the  park  com- 
plete, without  a  break  for  food  or  thought  of  occupa- 
tion—  on  the  evening  of  that  day  he  must  go,  he  de- 


210  THIS  FREEDOM 

dared,  to  the  horrific  castle  in   Pilchester   Square  and 
break  the  awful  news,  proclaim  his  villainy. 

She  was  terrified.     "  They'll  kill  you,  Harry.    Write." 

"  No,  no.  I've  been  a  howling  cad.  It's  true,  a  howl- 
ing cad,  not  of  guile,  but  of  these  astounding  things  that 
have  happened  to  us  outside  ourselves,  but  nevertheless 
a  howling  cad  as  such  conduct  is  judged,  and  will  be 
judged.  So  I  must  go  through  it.  I  must.  That's  cer- 
tain. I  couldn't  hide  behind  a  letter.  They  are  entitled 
to  tell  me  to  my  face  what  they  think  of  me.  They  must 
have  their  right.  Oh,  yes,  I've  got  to  give  them  that. 
To-night.     Now." 

A  howling  cad,  but  of  forces  outside  themselves 
("  Too  quick  for  me,"  he  had  explained),  not  of  guile. 

He  had  explained,  in  those  enchanted  hours  in  the 
park,  that  it  was  really  by  resolve  to  do  the  right  thing, 
and  not  to  do  the  caddish  thing,  that  he  had  presented 
himself  the  howling  cad  that  they  would  hold  him.  That 
night  at  the  Sturgiss's  at  Cricklewood  had  charged  him 
("  Oh,  Rosalie,  like  bursting  awake  to  breathe  from  suf- 
focation in  a  dream.")  what  for  many  days,  only  looking 
at  her,  never  speaking  to  her,  suffering  her  not  veiled 
contempt,  he  had  felt  as  one  feels  a  premonition  that  is 
insistent  but  that  cannot  be  defined  —  that  night  had 
charged  him  that  he  loved  her.  He  was  no  way  definitely 
committed  to  poor  Laetitia.  Was  he  more  wrong  if,  now 
knowing  his  heart  was  otherwhere,  he  maintained  and 
carried  to  its  consummation  the  intimacy  between  Laetitia 
and  himself,  or  if  he  stopped  while  yet  he  had  not  gone 
too  far  ?  He  had  decided  to  break  while  yet  it  might  be 
broken.  There  was  an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Fyke  Founce 
he  had  accepted.  He  wrote,  endeavouring  to  give  a 
meaning  to  his  words,  excusing  himself  from  it. 

She  murmured,  "  I  remember."     ("  Nothing  in  it,  dear 
child;  nothing  in  it!  ") 


THIS  FREEDOM  211 

There  came  back  a  letter  from  Colonel  Pyke  Pounce 
in  which  Colonel  Pyke  Pounce  also  had  endeavoured  to 
give  a  meaning  to  his  words,  and  had  succeeded.  Now 
Harry  knew  his  problem  of  moral  conduct  in  a  fiercer 
form;  now,  resolving  to  do  what  he  told  himself  was 
the  right  thing  and  not  the  caddish  thing,  he  took  the 
step  that  made  him  be  the  howling  cad  that  they  would 
think  him.     ("  But,  Rosalie,  gave  me  you!  ") 

He  had  resolved  that  he  must  accept  the  invitation,  pre- 
sent himself  at  the  house  —  and  let  the  hour  decide.  As 
the  situation  revealed  itself  so  he  would  accept  it.  H  it  was 
made  clear  to  him,  as  the  Pyke  Pounce  letter  much  gave 
him  to  believe,  that  proposal  for  Laetitia's  hand  was  ex- 
pected of  him,  he  would  "  do  the  right  thing  "  and  stand 
by  what  his  behaviour  apparently  had  led  them  to  expect; 
if  the  way  still  seemed  open,  the  door  not  shut  behind 
him,  he  would  very  frankly  explain  to  Laetitia's  grisly 
father  that  he  thought  it  best  his  visits  to  the  house  from 
now  should  cease.  The  hour  should  decide !  But  there 
was  in  the  hour,  when  it  came,  one  terrible,  one  lovely 
element  that  he  never  had  expected  to  be  there.  In  all 
his  visits  to  the  house  Rosalie  never  had  been  met  on  any 
other  day  than  Saturday.  This  dinner  was  on  the  Mon- 
day, and  arriving  to  face  and  carry  through  his  ordeal, 
he  was  startled,  he  was  utterly  shaken  to  see  her  there. 
{"  To  see  my  darling  there.") 

O  forces  outside  themselves !  "  When  you  had  to 
pass  me  in  the  passage  nothing  mattered  then  —  except  I 
could  not  let  you  pass." 

So  it  was  that  now,  the  right  thing  not  having  been 
done  on  that  night,  the  right  thing  in  this  new  position 
must  be  done  to-day.  They  w'ere  entitled  to  tell  him  to 
his  face  what  they  thought  of  him  and  they  must  have 
their  right.  That  was  his  view  and  he  would  not  abate 
it. 


212  THIS  FREEDOM 

''  They'll  kill  you,  Harry." 

They  had  come  by  this  to  the  corner  of  Pilchester 
Square  and  there  he  bade  her  wait.  She  said  again,  part 
laughing,  most  in  fear,  "  They'll  kill  you." 

"  I've  got  to  give  them  the  chance  to  do  their  best." 

And  off  he  went,  strongly,  erect.  One  who  never  .  .  . 
but  marched  breast  forward. 

Waiting  for  him,  she  really  was  terrified  for  him. 
Ferocious  Uncle  Pyke!  Terrific  Aunt  Belle!  Swollen 
and  infuriated  Uncle  Pyke!     Bitter  and  outraged  Aunt 

Belle! 

In  twenty  minutes  came  the  crash  of  a  slammed  front 
door  that  clearly  and  terribly  was  Uncle  Pyke  Pounce 
slamming  it  as  if  he  would  hurl  it  through  its  portals  and 
crash  it  on  to  Harry  down  the  steps. 

Harry  reappeared,  uncommonly  grave. 

She  put  out  a  hand  to  him,  dreadfully  anxious. 

"  Mice  and  Mumps ! "  said  Harry.  "  Mice  and 
Mumps!" 

You  couldn't  help  laughing!  But  also,  squeezing  the 
strong  arm  beneath  which  he  tucked  her  hand,  you  felt, 
with  such  a  thrill,  from  that  grotesque  expression,  and 
from  his  face  as  he  said  it,  that  this,  like  every  forward 
thing,  had  in  it  nothing  that  could  discommode  that  high, 
brave  spirit:  no  fight  in  such;  he  was  captain  of  such, 
trust  him ! 

Thus  also  her  delight  in  another  form,  and  yet  in  the 
same  form,  in  that  grotesque  expression,  when  it  was 
ejaculated  as  his  sole  expletive  when  he  caught  his  thumb 
that  frightful  crack  while  hanging  a  picture  in  what  was 
to  be  his  study  in  their  newly  taken  house. 

Any  other  man  in  the  world,  even  a  bishop,  would  have 
sworn;  would  have  sworn  no  doubt  harmlessly  and  with 
an  honest  heartiness  to  which  the  most  pious  prude  could 


THIS  FREEDOM  213 

not  have  taken  exception.  Agreed !  But  the  point  was  — 
that  Harry  didn't! 

She  loved  him  so!  She  insisted  she  must  bind  up  the 
thumb  with  her  pocket  handkerchief,  and  did,  Harry  pro- 
testing; and  for  years,  still  loving  him  with  the  old,  first 
love,  she  often  would  be  reminded  by  the  picture  of  the 
incident  and  of  her  joy  in  it. 

Yes,  the  only  expletive  she  ever  heard  him  use;  and, 
lo,  in  that  very  room,  years  on,  he  seated  beneath  that 
very  picture,  she  was  to  come  to  him  with  news  (and  hers 
the  guilt  of  it)  that  for  the  first  time  was  to  strike  him 
between  the  joints  of  his  harness,  visibly  ageing  him  as 
she  spoke,  and  for  the  first  time  cause  him  to  groan  his 
pain.  She  was  to  glance  at  the  picture  as  she  spoke  and 
very  terribly  its  merry  association  to  be  recalled  to  her. 
She  was  to  recall  him  young,  gay,  tremendously  splendid, 
wringing  his  damaged  hand,  laughing,  "  Mice  and 
Mumps !  "  She  was  to  see  him,  grey  ascendant  upon  the 
raven  of  his  hair,  shrinking  down  in  his  seat,  wilting  as 
one  slowly  collapsing  after  a  stunning  blow,  and  at  her 
news  (and  hers  the  guilt  of  it)  to  hear  his  voice  go,  not 
exclamatorily,  but  in  a  thick  mutter,  as  one  dazed,  be- 
wildered, in  a  fog,  "  My  God,  my  God,  my  God,  my 
God!" 

How  could  one  ever  have  foreseen  that? 


CHAPTER  II 

She  loved  him  so!  On  that  first  day  together  in  the 
park  she  told  him  everything  about  herself,  about  all  her 
ideas  and  theories  and  principles,  particularly  where  these 
touched  his  sex,  even  about  that  terrible  fit  of  crying  of 
hers  in  bed  an  hour  after  she  had  left  him.  And  Harry 
understood  everything  and  agreed  with  her  in  everything. 
O  rapturous  affinity  1 

They  met  early  when  business  London  was  rushing  to 
business.  They  stayed  late,  with  no  thought  of  food  or 
of  their  occupations,  till  business  London  was  returning, 
and  night,  in  lamps  below  and  stars  above,  was  setting 
out  its  sentinels. 

She  told  him  everything;  and  even  if  she  had  wished 
not  to  open  all  her  heart,  there  would  have  been  the  im- 
mense selection  of  everything  —  every  single  thing  about 
herself  —  from  which  to  choose  to  tell  him.  For  there 
never  had  been  such  a  betrothal  as  theirs ;  done  at  a  blow 
with  no  single  intimate  thing  ever  before  passed  between 
them!  Her  very  first  words  to  him  as  they  met,  her 
greeting  of  him  as  they  came  together,  showed  how  pre- 
posterous and  never-before-imagined  was  their  affiance- 
ment.  "  You  know,  it's  incredible,"  she  greeted  him. 
"  It's  incredible,  it's  grotesque,  it's  flatly  impossible  — 
I've  never  before  seen  you  except  in  your  dress  clothes 
or  at  afternoon  tea !  " 

Harry  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  "  But  I  think  I've 
wanted  you,"  said  Harry,  "  ever  since  I  was  in  long 
clothes.  I  know  I've  wanted  you  ever  since  first  I  saw 
you." 


THIS  FREEDOM  215 

One  knows  another,  in  her  place,  would  have  bantered 
this  off  in  that  modern  attitude  towards  love  which  is  a 
horror,  boisterously  expressed,  of  admitting  love  as  an 
emotion.  Rosalie,  that  had  scorned  the  very  name  of 
love,  and  that,  because  betrayed  by  love,  had  turned  her 
face  to  her  pillow  and  cried  most  frightfully,  received  it 
with  a  sound  that  was  between  a  sigh  and  a  catching  of 
her  breath.     She  loved  him  so ! 

And  then  they  talked ;  and  the  thing  between  them,  that 
had  come  so  wonderfully,  was  so  wonderful  that  they 
were  as  it  were  transfigured  by  it,  as  awe  and  spiritualit} 
and  mysticism  would  fill  the  dwellers  in  a  house  visited 
by  a  miracle  of  God.  So  wonderful,  that  conversation, 
they  would  have  felt,  was  not  possibly  a  word  for  all 
that  occupied  them  in  those  rapturous  hours :  not  con- 
versation, no,  —  a  sublime  engagement  of  their  spirits 
wherein  (possessing  the  keys  of  all  the  wonders),  seas, 
continents  and  worlds  of  thoughts  were  traversed  by 
them,  in  every  clime  most  exquisite  affinity  discovered. 

As  at  a  blow  they  had  become  affianced,  so,  with  no 
stage  between,  but  in  immediate  sequence  perfectly  nat- 
ural to  them  both,  the  natural  repercussion  of  the  blow, 
they  talked  immediately  of  betrothal's  consummation,  of 
marriage,  of  their  marriage. 

About  marriage  Rosalie  had  immensely  much  to  tell 
Harry.  It  was  what  she  had  principally  to  say,  and  this 
is  how  and  why  and  what  she  told  him. 

When  from  her  first  terrible  dismay  —  that  frightful 
crying,  her  face  turned  to  the  pillow  —  she  had  recov- 
ered; when  to  the  lovely  ardour  of  her  love  —  stealing 
about  her,  soothing  her,  in  the  night;  bursting  upon  her, 
ravishing  her,  in  the  morning  —  she  had  passed  on ;  she 
remembered  her  second  line  of  her  defences  and  she  fell 
back  upon  it.  "If  ever  I  fell  in  love,"  she  had  often 
said,  alike  to  Keggo  and  to  Miss  Salmon,  "  if  such  an 


216  THIS  FREEDOM 

impossible  thing  ever  were  to  happen  to  me,  I'd  marry  as 
marriage  should  be.  I'd  enter  a  partnership.  I  v/ould 
live  my  life;  he  would  live  his  life;  together,  when  we 
wanted  to,  when  we  were  off  duty,  so  to  speak,  we  would 
live  oitr  life.  A  partnership,  a  mutually  free  and  inde- 
pendent partnership." 

The  second  line  of  her  defences !  Oh,  strong  and  re- 
assuring thought!  Of  course,  of  course  the  first  line, 
breached  and  swept  away,  had  never  really  mattered. 
Foolish  to  have  wept  for  it !  It  was  built  against  love 
and  she  knew  now,  by  her  darling  and  her  terrible  ex- 
perience, that  against  love !    Nay,  in  that  whelming 

admission's  very  tide,  sweeping  upon  her  from  envisage- 
ment  of  Harry  and  bearing  her  deliciously  upon  its  flood, 
there  had  come  a  thought  as  strong  with  wine  as  that 
was  sweet  with  honey.  Built  against  love!  Why,  in 
seeking  to  build  against  love,  to  shut  away  love  from  her 
life,  was  she  not  perpetrating  against  herself  the  very 
act  —  denial  of  anything  a  free  life  might  have  —  that 
it  was  her  life's  first  principle  to  oppose?  A  man's  place, 
a  man's  part,  everything  that  a  man  by  conventional 
dowry  is  given,  hers  should  be  as  freely  as  a  man's  it  is ! 
That  was  her  aim;  that  at  once  the  basis  of  her  stand- 
point and  the  target  of  her  shaft;  and  lo,  at  the  very  out- 
set of  her  independence,  she  had  sought  to  deny  herself 
that  which  (as  now  she  knew)  was  life's  most  lovely 
gift.  She  was  steadfast,  and  she  was  caparisoned,  to 
obtain  and  to  possess  the  things  that,  of  her  sex,  com- 
monly a  woman  might  not  have,  and  she  was  shutting 
herself  from  that  which,  if  it  offers,  not  all  the  man- 
owned  world  can  deny  the  woman  lowliest  in  office, 
heaviest  in  chains,  deepest  in  servitude  I 

O  senselessness !  She  could  see,  as  looking  upon  an 
individuality  not  her  own,  that  foolish  girl  that  for  such 
had  turned  her  face  to  her  pillow  and  cried  out  her  heart ; 


THIS  FREEDOM  217 

and  at  that  very  moment,  and  no  other,  of  smiHng  pity 
for  that  mistaken  grief,  there  came  to  RosaHe  a  sudden 
sense  of  womanhood  attained ;  of  much  increase  of  years 
and  wisdom;  of  growth  of  stature;  of  transportation,  as 
from  one  world  to  another,  from  the  character  and  the 
presence  that  had  been  hers  to  a  personahty  and  a  body 
that  looked  down  upon  that  other  as,  tenderly,  a  mother 
upon  the  innocence  of  her  small  child. 

That  poor,  brave,  foolish  Rosalie  that  was !  Did  she 
protest,  that  foolish  girl,  that  she  was  right  in  what  had 
been  her  attitude  to  love?  Did  she  with  would-be  bitter- 
ness recall  those  views  laid  down  upon  the  women  in  the 
boarding  house  —  that  they  were  derelicts  precisely 
through  this  love  business,  abandoned  of  men,  relict  of 
men,  footsore  and  fallen  in  pursuit  of  men? 

Ah,  small,  misguided  creature!  The  principles  were 
right  but  all  askew  the  application.  Love!  Consider 
other  attributes  of  life.  Consider  learning;  consider 
food.  Learning  and  food  —  were  they  not  bounties  of 
life's  treasure,  to  be  absorbed  and  used  for  sustenance 
in  order,  by  their  nourishment,  to  give  to  live  this  life 
more  fully?  Why,  so  with  love!  Derelicts,  those 
women,  because  receiving  love  (that  loveliest  gift  of  all!) 
not  as  a  means  but  as  an  end  —  the  end  of  all :  that  at- 
tained, everything  attained ;  that  won,  all  finished.  That 
was  it !  That  the  misapplication !  Learning,  or  food,  or 
love  —  the  same  with  all!  How  dead  the  life  that  only 
lived  in  scholarship;  how  gross  the  life  that  only  lived 
to  eat;  how  derelict  that  she  that  only  lived  to  love,  to 
marry  —  then  ceased  to  live  I 

And  equally,  O  small,  misguided  girl,  how  starved 
the  life  that  has  no  books;  how  weak  the  frame  that  has 
no  food;  ah,  dear  (thus  smiled  she  to  herself),  how  dead 
the  life  that  knows  not  love! 

The  second  line  of  her  defences !    Nay,  as  now  through 


218  THIS  FREEDOM 

this  mature  and  happy  cogitation  she  saw  it,  the  first 
and  last  and  only  line!  In  her  aloneness,  in  that  girl's 
single  life,  there  had  been  nothing  against  which  to  de- 
fend. She  had  fought  phantoms,  that  girl;  resisted 
shadows.  Now  was  the  necessity,  now  the  test ;  and  now, 
because  with  Harry,  because  she  loved  him  so,  because  he 
was  every  way  and  in  all  things  perfect,  now  should  be 
the  triumphant  exposition. 

And  she  told  Harry :  marriage  that  should  be  a  part- 
nership —  not  an  absorption  by  the  greater  of  the  less ; 
not  one  part  active  and  the  other  passive ;  one  giving,  the 
other  receiving;  one  maintaining,  the  other  maintained; 
none  of  these,  but  instead  a  perfect  partnering,  a  perfect 
equality  that  should  be  equality  of  place,  equality  of  priv- 
ilege, equality  of  duty,  equality  of  freedom.  "  Harry, 
each  with  work  and  with  a  career.  Harry,  each  living  an 
own  life  as  every  man,  away  from  home,  shutting  his 
front  door  upon  that  home  and  off  to  work,  leads  an  own 
and  separate  life.     Harry " 

Oh,  wonderful  beneath  this  imperturbable  sky,  amongst 
these  common,  passive  things  —  these  paths,  those  trees, 
that  grass,  this  bench  —  within  this  seclusion  of  that  mur- 
murous investment  of  this  city,  the  ceaseless  roar  of 
London,  standing  like  patient  walls,  eternal  and  indif- 
ferent, about  her  quietudes.  Oh,  wonderful  in  these  ac- 
customed and  insensible  surroundings  thus  to  be  calling 
"  Harry,"  as  he  were  brother,  him  that  a  day  and  night 
away  virtually  was  unmet;  to  be  exposing,  as  to  a  gra- 
cious patron,  all  her  mind's  treasury  of  thought;  to  be 
revealing,  as  in  confessional,  her  inmost  places  of  her 
heart;  to  be  receiving,  as  by  transfusion,  the  glow  of  af- 
firmation on  her  way  and  in  her  trust.     Oh,  wonderful] 

Wonderful,  because  remember  for  her  that  she  was 
still  beneath  the  shock  of  her  dismay  at  her  betrayal  of 
herself;  still  breathless  at  that  rout  from  her  prepared 


THIS  FREEDOM  219 

positions ;  not  yet  assured  her  banners  were  unsullied  in 
their  withdrawal  to  her  second  line;  not  yet  convinced  it 
was  no  rout  but  a  withdrawal,  wise  and  strategical,  ranks 
unbroken,  to  the  true  point  of  her  defence. 

Do  try  to  imagine  her,  tremulous  in  this  her  vital  enter- 
prise, tremulous  in  this  wonder  that  her  armies  found.  It 
is  very  desirable  to  remember  what  can  be  remembered 
for  that  girl. 


CHAPTER  III 

Harry  assured  her !  Harry  convinced  her !  Harry 
was  here  upon  the  battlements,  come  with  her  in  her 
retirement,  joined  with  her  as  her  ally.  All  her  ideas 
were  his  ideas.  He,  too,  had  these  new  views  of  mar- 
riage. He  said  they  always  had  been  his.  He  hated,  as 
she  hated,  that  old  dependence  notion :  all  the  privileges 
the  man's,  the  woman's  all  the  duties.  That  was  detest- 
able to  him,  said  Harry.     Marriage  in  his  view 

"  I'll  tell  you  this,"  was  one  thing  Harry  said.  "  I'll 
show  it  to  you  this  way,  Rosalie.  I  don't  exactly  know 
what  a  reciprocating  machine  is,  but  I  know  what  it 
sounds  like,  and  what  it  sounds  like  is  what  a  marriage 
ought  to  be,  —  a  perfect  fitting  together,  a  perfect  har- 
monising, a  perfect  joining  of  two  perfect  halves  that 
everywhere  reciprocate." 

The  word  delighted  her.  A  reciprocating  machine! 
Yes,  yes !  Each  an  own  part ;  each  with  own  and  separate 
interests;  and  their  parts,  and  the  production  arising  out 
of  their  interests  —  their  individual  selves  —  approached 
together,  by  free  will,  to  join  towards  a  mutual  benefit, 
a  shared  endeavour,  a  common  advancement,  a  single  end. 

She  was  desperately  in  earnest  and  so  was  he.  There 
was  a  mill  near  his  people's  home  in  Sussex,  a  water  mill, 
and  his  illustration  by  it  of  the  design  they  had  showed 
her  how  earnestly  her  own  ideas  were  his.  There  were 
two  wheels  to  this  mill,  Harry  told  her,  one  on  either 
side.  Each  ran  in  its  own  stream,  each  was  entirelv  inde- 
pendent  of  the  other;  they  worked  alone,  but  each  helped 


THIS  FREEDOM  221 

the  other's  work;  the  mill  joined  them  and  they  joined 
to  make  the  mill. 

That  was  it! 

And  she  was  not  talking  any  generalities,  and  Harry 
was  not,  either.  They  weren't,  either  of  them,  playing 
with  this  idea  of  mutual  independence.  There  would 
"  of  course  "  be  a  business  basis  to  it,  Rosalie  said.  She 
was  earning  her  own  income  and  she  would  pay  her  half 
of  the  upkeep  of  their  home  together.  It  was  a  stipula- 
tion that  she  advanced  with  a  definite  fear  that  here,  at 
last,  she  might  be  taking  Harry  from  his  depth ;  that  by 
natural  instinct  of  generosity,  or  by  instinct  of  imme- 
morial custom  to  endow  the  wife  with  all  the  husband's 
worldly  goods,  he  would  here  reveal  a  flaw  in  his  till  now 
flawless  duplication  of  the  views  that  were  her  own. 

But  Harry  (the  never  failing  rapture  of  it!)  was  every 
way  without  spot  or  blemish.  He  was  looking  straight 
and  close  into  her  eyes  while  she  put  forward  this,  and 
there  moved  not  the  least  dissentient  shade  across  his  own 
while  he  received  it.  She  need  have  had  no  fear.  He  said, 
"  I  agree  absolutely  with  that,  Rosalie.  There's  only  one 
point  — "  and  his  expansion  of  this  point  wholly  en- 
tranced her  because  it  established  conditions  even  more 
matter-of-fact  and  businesslike  than  her  own  broad  prin- 
ciple. 

"There's  only  one  point,"  Harry  said.  "  It  can't  be 
half  and  half  in  terms  of  actual  bisection.  Look,  Rosalie, 
in  this  matter  of  running  the  home  we're  making  a  con- 
tract between  two  parties  and  —  don't  forget  I'm  a  law- 
yer —  it  has  to  be  an  equable  and  just  contract,  and  to 
be  that  it  has  to  be  based  for  each  party's  Hability  — 
Do  you  like  me  to  use  the  law  jargon?  " 

She  nodded.  "  I  do,  I  do !  "  This  was  frightfully, 
entrancingly  serious  for  her.     This  was  a  survey  of  the 


222  THIS  FREEDOM 

fortifications  of  her  second  line  of  her  defences.  "  I  do, 
I  do!" 

"  Well,  has  to  be  based  for  each  party's  liability  on 
each  party's  interest,  on  the  extent  to  which  each  party 
is  involved.  I'm  making  more  —  an  uncommon  good 
bit  more  —  than  you  are,  Rosalie.  My  interest,  there- 
fore my  liability,  that  is,  my  share,  has  to  be  allowed  to 
be  proportionately  the  more.  Put  it  in  another  way. 
We're  going  to  run  an  establishment  as  an  establishment 
might  be  run  by  two  or  more  people  of  different  incomes 
who  wish  to  join  forces  for  mutual  pleasure,  two  or  thre^ 
relatives,  two  or  three  friends.  Well,  there's  a  regular 
principle  governing  that  kind  of  arrangement.  You 
don't  all  pay  the  same.  If  you  did,  you'd  reduce  the  scale 
of  living  to  the  level  of  what  the  poorest  can  afford,  and 
half  the  idea  of  the  combination  is  to  enjoy  a  very  much 
better  scale.  No,  you  run  the  show  on  the  level  the 
wealthiest  is  willing  to  go  to,  and  to  the  total  charge 
each  one  contributes  in  the  proportion  of  his  income.  If 
one  party  has  a  thousand  a  year  and  the  other  five  hun- 
dred, and  the  thousand-pounder  wants  to  live  at  the  rate 
of  nine  hundred  a  year,  he  pays  six  hundred  and  the 
other  three  hundred.  Each  is  paying  his  just  share  — 
that's  the  point.     That's  how  we'd  arrange  it,  Rosalie." 

She  loved  him  so!  If  that  were  said  a  thousand  times 
(as  already  perhaps  too  often  for  the  robust)  it  still 
would  not  approach  the  volume  of  its  swelling  in  the 
heart  of  Rosalie,  for  that  was  ceaseless.  His  attitude  in 
this  matter  now  between  them,  as  in  every  matter,  might 
have  been  the  perfect  agreement  with  her  own  view  that 
it  was  and  yet  might  so  have  been  presented  as  to  be 
much  antipathetic  to  her.  His  attitude  might  have  made 
her  feel  she  ought  to  say,  "  Thank  you,  Harry,  for  agree- 
ing to  that  " ;  it  might  have  had  the  note,  "  I  know  ex- 
actly how  you  feel  about  marriage ;  I  want  to  make  every- 


THIS  FREEDOM  223 

thing  just  as  you  wish."  Quicksands!  Principles  to  be 
receiveci^  as  grants,  bases  of  lier  defences  to  be  accepted 
as  concessions !  Quicksands !  At  either  attitude,  as  at 
a  foreign  flavour  in  a  cup,  she  would  have  drawn  back, 
suspicious;  at  either  sense  within  herself,  of  winning  a 
favour,  of  accepting  a  hazard,  she  would  have  taken 
alarm,  dismayed.  But  it  was  why  she  loved  him  so  that 
here,  as  everywhere,  his  standpoint  was  her  standpoint's 
own  reflection.  She  was,  as  she  would  have  said,  deadly 
in  earnest ;  deadly  in  earnest  to  a  depth  that  she  could  let 
go  to  absurdity  and  never  know  it  for  absurdity;  and  so 
was  he. 

Approving  this  plan  of  computation  of  the  share  that 
each  would  pay,  "  It  would  have  to  be  done  strictly,"  she 
said,  "as  though  it  were  strictly  business.  And  —  you 
don't  know,  perhaps  —  I'm  making,  or  soon  shall  be,  just 
on  five  hundred  a  year." 

He  smiled  the  nice  smile  of  his  she  loved,  more  with 
his  eyes  than  with  his  lips.  "  I'm  afraid  mine's  a  good 
bit  more  than  that.  Money's  rather  pushed  at  you  at  the 
Bar  once  it  starts.    You'd  have  to  put  up  with  that." 

Her  fondness  in  her  eyes  reflected  him.  "  I  know  how 
famous  you  are  getting.  I'd  not  be  stupid  about  that, 
Harry.  It  would  be  the  just  share,  each  according  to  our 
means ;  that's  understood.  Only,  for  me,  it  would  have 
to  be  the  just  share,  that's  what  I'm  saying;  not  a  matter 
of  form,  a  strict  proportion." 

"  If  you  liked,"  said  Harry,  "  we'd  give  the  figures  to 
the  costs  clerk  at  my  chambers  and  let  him  work  the  con- 
tributions out." 

"Absurd!"  she  might  have  laughed;  and  as  an  ab- 
surdity he  might,  with  a  laugh,  have  presented  it.  But 
quite  gravely  he  made  the  suggestion,  and  quite  gravely, 
after  a  moment's  grave  thought,  "  I  don't  think  that 
would  be  necessary,"  she  returned. 


224  THIS  FREEDOM 

His  earnestness  in  this  thing  so  vital  to  her  matched 
her  own,  and  therefore  she  loved  him;  and  he  yet  could 
bring  to  it  lightly  a  touch  which,  though  light,  yet  was 
profoundly  based;  and  therefore,  newly,  she  loved  him. 
She  knew  she  talked  with  immense  profligacy  of  words 
in  her  endeavour  to  make  clear  the  principles  this  second 
line  of  her  defences  must  maintain.  "  Each  with  work 
and  with  a  career,  each  with  an  own  and  separate  life." 
She  kept  repeating  that.  "  Equal  in  work  and  in  respon- 
sibility, Harry,  and  therefore  equal  in  place,  in  privilege, 
in  freedom." 

And  Harry,  with  a  light  touch  but  a  grave  air,  a  happy 
setting  for  a  profound  meaning,  put  it  in  a  sentence. 
"  Things  which  are  equal  to  the  same  thing  are  equal  to 
one  another."  said  Harry, 

She  loved  him  so! 

But  there  ought  here  to  be  explained  for  her  what,  lov- 
ing him  so  and  he  so  loving  her,  she  could  not  have  known 
for  herself.  This  plan  of  maintaining  their  establishment 
by  contribution  of  share  and  share  was  maintained  by 
Rosalie  from  the  beginning  —  to  the  end.  She  never  had 
cause  to  doubt  that  in  all  the  earnestness  of  that  close 
conversation  Harry  was  utterly  sincere.  She  often  re- 
called that  steady  gaze  with  no  dissentient  shade  across 
it  with  which  his  eyes  received  her  statement  of  her  case 
and  knew  that  only  truth  was  in  that  gaze.  He  did  be- 
lieve what  she  believed.  It  only  was  afterwards  she  dis- 
covered that  also  he  believed  that,  both  for  her  and  him, 
the  thing  would  mellow  down  as  mellows  down  the  year, 
her  heady  Aprils  burnt  in  June,  her  burning  Junes  as- 
suaging to  September ;  that  it  would  pass ;  that  time  — 

Yes,  it  must  be  explained.  It  was  not  active  in  his 
mind,  this  reservation.  It  was  passive,  underlying,  sub- 
conscious, as  beneath  vigour's  incredulity  of  death  lies 


THIS  FREEDOM  225 

passively  admission  of  death's  final  certitude.  He  be- 
lieved what  she  believed ;  but  he  believed  it  as  are  believed 
infinity  and  eternity :  wherein  mankind,  believing,  reposes 
upon  that  limitation  of  the  human  mind  which  cannot 
conceive  infinity  but  sees  ultimately  an  end,  and  can  pre- 
tend eternity  through  myriad  years  but  feels  ultimately  a 
termination.  Harry  believed  what  she  believed  but  only 
by  stabilisation  of  a  man's  inherent  articles  of  faith.  He 
was  of  the  male  kind ;  and  observe,  by  an  incident,  what 
inherent  processes  of  thought  the  male  kind  has : 

When  they  were  looking  over  the  house  which  ulti- 
mately they  took  —  an  all  ways  most  desirable  house  in 
Montpelier  Crescent,  Knightsbridge  —  Rosalie  had  only  a 
single  objection:  it  was  far  too  big. 

"  Miles  too  big,"  cried  Rosalie,  coming  up  to  the  sec- 
ond floor  where  Harry  had  preceded  her.  "  What  are 
you  doing  there,  Harry?  Miles  too  big,  I  was  saying. 
It  really  is.  Of  course  I  realise  you  must  have  a  house 
suitable  to  your  fame  but  —  What  are  you  doing, 
Harry?" 

"  Fame,  yes,"  breathed  Harry,  desperately  occupied. 
"  I've  turned  on  this  tap  and  I  can't  turn  it  off  again. 
Eternal  fame.     After  me  the  deluge!  " 

She  was  looking  around.  "  But,  Harry,  really !  Look 
at    this    floor.      Two    more    hue:e    rooms.      What    can 


we—" 


"  Mice  and  Mumps !  "  groaned  Harry,  straining  at  the 
tap.     "  Mice  and  Mumps !  " 

He  came  to  her  wiping  his  hands  on  his  handkerchief. 
"  Too  big  1  Look  here,  supposing  this  house  isn't  washed 
away  by  that  tap.  Suppose  it's  still  standing  here  to- 
morrow. Take  a  broad,  courageous  view  of  the  thing. 
Suppose  this  isn't  the  beginning  of  the  Great  Flood  of 
London,  and  that  we're  going  to  live  in  a  house  and 
not  an  ark.     Well,  what  you've  got  to  remember  is  that 


226  THIS  FREEDOM 

we're  not  coming  in  here  for  a  week.  We've  got  to  look 
ahead.  Take  these  two  rooms.  Why,  you  can  see  what 
they're  for,  what  they've  been.  Opening  into  one  an- 
other, and  those  little  bars  on  the  windows,  and  that  pro- 
tected fireplace.  Nurseries.  Day  nursery  and  night 
nursery." 

Rosalie  laughed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

That's  all  done.  The  thing  traverses  the  waters  of  the 
years,  as  across  seas  a  ship,  and  makes  presently  a  new 
shore,  a  new  clime,  wherein  are  met  occasions  new  and 
strange,  not  anticipated  by  Rosalie. 

Here  is  one. 

Habitant  in  the  new  continent  across  these  years,  she 
is  wife  and,  though  she  had  laughed,  is  mother,  and  on  a 
day  is  with  her  Harry,  and  Harry  is  saying,  not  at  all 
with  any  hardness  in  his  voice,  but  very  gravely : 

"  I  have  a  right  to  a  home." 

She  replies,  as  grave  as  he,  as  one  debating  a  matter 
that  is  weighty  but  that  is  before  the  arbitrament,  not 
of  feeling,  but  of  reason,  "  Harry,  you  have  a  home." 

A  gesture  of  his  head,  much  comprehensive,  is  made 
by  him :     "  Is  this  a  home?  " 

"  It's  where  we  live." 

"  Ah,  where  we  live,  Rosalie !  " 

She  did  not  reply  to  this.  Himself,  and  not  she,  spoke 
next;  but  his  note  was  as  though  she  had  answered  and 
he  were  speaking  in  his  turn.  "  I  have  a  right  to  a  home. 
The  children  have  a  right  to  a  home." 

She  said,  "  Then,  Harry,  give  yourself  a  home.  Give 
the  children  a  home." 

He  said,  "  Rosalie,  I  am  a  man." 

She  answered,  "  Harry,  I  am  a  woman." 

Harry  was  smoking  and  he  indrew  an  inhalation  from 
his  pipe  with  a  long  sibilant  sound :  her  answer  was  very 
well  understood  by  him. 

No,  she  never  had  anticipated  this. 


228  THIS  FREEDOM 

Yet  might  not  she  have  seen?  Astounding  how  in  Hfe 
one's  suddenly  engulfed  in  depths  and  never  has  per- 
ceived the  shoals  from  which  they  led;  suddenly  en- 
tombed in  night  and  never  has  perceived  the  gradual 
declination  of  the  day!  Why,  when  she  looked  back, 
so  far  away  as  in  those  days  of  choosing  their  house  had 
been  in  seed  this  thing  that  now  was  come  to  fruit.  And 
she  had  watched  it  grow  from  seed  to  seedling,  and  on  to 
bud  and  blossom,  and  never  had  suspected. 

But  had  she  not  ?  Then  it  was  curious,  she  knew,  that, 
alone  of  all  her  thoughts,  all  her  beliefs,  all  her  theories, 
her  observations  and  her  deductions  from  her  observa- 
tions, curious  that  of  them  all  only  a  certain  observation, 
made  when  choosing  their  house,  she  never  had  told  to 
Harry. 

Choosing  their  house !  She  had  gone  back  to  her  rooms 
from  the  third  day  of  their  house-hunting  gently  amused 
at  an  addition  to  her  compendium  of  lore  on  the  male 
habit.  It  was  in  a  way  like  the  cat  idea;  at  least  it  was, 
like  that,  reversal  of  a  common  opinion  on  distinguishing 
traits  as  between  men  and  women.  It  went  in  her  mind 
like  this  and,  because  it  arose  out  of  Harry,  she  laughed 
softly  to  herself  as  like  this  she  shaped  it : 

"  They  say  a  woman  marries  for  a  home.  Wrong, 
wrong !  It's  man  that  marries  for  a  home  —  a  home  that, 
having  got  it,  superficially  he  cares  little  enough  about, 
and  superficially  uses  as  a  good  place  to  get  away  from; 
but  that's  just  how  he  uses  his  business,  how  he  uses 
everything.  Oh,  he  wants  it,  he  wants  it,  and  he  marries 
for  it  far  more  than  a  woman  wants  it  or  marries  for  it. 
How  plain  it  is !  A  man  marries  to  settle  down,  a  woman 
for  just  precisely  the  opposite:  to  break  up;  to  get  away 
from  the  constraints  of  daughterhood  and  of  Miss-hood, 
as  a  schoolgirl,  holiday-bound,  from  the  constraints  of 
school;  to  enlarge  her  life,  not  to  restrict  it;  to  aerate  her 


THIS  FREEDOM  229 

life,  not  to  compose  it.  Why,  it's  inherent  in  a  man,  the 
desire  for  a  home;  it's  in  his  bones.  Look  at  httle  boys 
playing  —  it's  caves  and  tents  and  wigwams  they  delight 
to  play  at;  a  place  they  can  in  part  discover  and  in  part 
construct,  and  then  arrange  their  things  in,  and  then  go 
off  exploring  and  then,  all  the  time,  be  coming  back  to 
the  delicious  cave  and  creep  in  and  block  up  the  door! 
Girls  don't  play  at  that;  they  play  at  shops  and  being 
grown  up,  at  nursing  dolls  and  not  themselves  being 
nursed.  But  that's  your  man  —  a  hunter  with  a  cave, 
and  the  return  to  the  cave  the  best  part  of  the  hunting. 
That's  what  he  marries  for  —  a  home;  a  pitch  of  his 
own ;  a  place  to  bring  his  things  to  and  wherein  to  keep 
his  things;  an  establishment;  a  solid,  anchored  base;  a 
place  where  he  can  have  his  wife  and  his  children  and  his 
dogs  and  his  books  and  his  servants  and  his  treasures  and 
his  slippers  and  his  ease,  and  can  feel,  comfortably,  that 
she  and  they  and  it  are  his,  —  his  mysterious  cave  with 
the  door  blocked  up,  his  base,  his  moorings,  his  settled  and 
abiding  centre.     Dear  Harry  !  " 

"  Dear  Harry  "  because  all  this  had  come  to  her  while 
with  secret,  fond  amusement  she  had  watched  Harry  de- 
lightedly and  entrancedly  fussing  about  the  houses  they 
explored.  The  boy  with  a  cave !  The  man  with  a  home ! 
She  liked  the  idea  of  a  new  home,  and  a  home  with  Harry, 
but,  given  outstanding  features  obviously  essential,  almost 
any  home  would  have  satisfied  her.  She  was  animated 
and  interested  in  the  choosing,  but  not  with  Harry's  in- 
terest and  animation.  Hers  were  the  feelings  with  which 
she  had  established  herself  in  the  two-room  suite  at  the 
boarding  house.  There  any  two  rooms  would  have  done ; 
here  any  pleasant  house  would  do.  It  was  not  the  rooms ; 
it  was  the  significance  of  her  entry  into  their  possession. 
It  was  not  the  house;  it  was  the  significance  of  all  con- 
noted by  the  house.     The  rooms  had  been  a  stepping-ofif 


230  THIS  FREEDOM 

place  to  independence  larger  and  to  triumphs  new;  the 
house  was  a  stepping-off  place  to  independence,  to  tri- 
umphs, to  battle  of  life  and  to  joy  of  life,  lifted  upon 
a  plane  high  above  her  old  world  as  the  stars,  as  bright 
and  keen  as  they. 

But  for  Harry  it  was  a  stepping-in  place. 

It  was  Harry  that  fussed  and  examined  and  measured 
and  opened  and  shut  and  tested  and  tried  and  must  have 
this  and  must  have  that.  It  was  Harry  who  saw  every- 
thing with  the  eye  that  was  going  to  see  it  and  live  with 
it  permanently  and  for  all  time.  It  was  Harry  who  in- 
vested every  square  yard  of  every  interior  with  the  attri- 
butes that  should  be  there  when  they  therein  were  domi- 
ciled. Harry  who  said,  "This  front  door!  Rosalie, 
we're  going  to  have  a  front  door  that  will  hit  you  in 
the  eye  and  make  you  say  '  Mice  and  Mumps,  there's  a 
distinguished  couple  that  live  behind  a  door  like  that ! ' 
None  of  your  wretched  browns  and  greens  and  blacks 
and  reds  for  our  door,  Rosalie!  We'll  have  a  yellow 
front  door,  gamboge.  I've  seen  it  on  a  house  in  West- 
minster. I'll  take  you  there.  You  wait  till  you  see  it. 
Imagine  it,  Rosalie,  beneath  that  lovely  old  fanlight  over- 
head. And  then  yellow  window  boxes  tinted  to  match 
in  every  window  and  crammed  with  flowers.  It'll  be  a 
house  you'll  run  to  get  into  directly  you  catch  sight  of 
it.  Then  inside  here,  in  the  hall,  there'll  be  the  thickest 
rugs  money  can  buy  and  the  brightest  light  and  the 
warmest  stove.  You'll  step  in  and  shut  the  yellow  door 
and,  '  Mice  and  Mumps,'  you'll  say,  '  this  is  home ! ' 
Now,  look  here;  here'll  be  my  study;  I'll  have  book- 
shelves built  in  all  round  there  and  there  and  there. 
Pictures  there.  This  nook  —  I'll  fix  a  little  cupboard 
there  and  keep  my  tools  in.  I'll  spend  half  my  time  our 
first  weeks  pottering  about  with  a  hammer  and  a  pair  of 
pliers.     This  place  just  here  on  the  landing.     Looks  like 


THIS  FREEDOM  231 

a  dungeon.  We'll  knock  out  a  window  there  and  fit  it 
up  with  hot  and  cold  water  as  a  cloak  room.  Now  here's 
your  room,  your " 

"My  study,"  she  had  interpolated,  a  little  apprehensive 
lest  for  her  private  room  he  should  use  another  word. 

"  Yes,  your  study,  rather.  Each  of  us  with  our  own 
study!  A  lark,  eh?  And  Rosalie,  in  mine  there'll  be  a 
special  chair  for  you  and  in  yours  a  special  chair  for  me. 
We'll  stroll  in  on  each  other's  work  —  " 

She  loved  him  for  that.  "  Like  two  men  in  chambers," 
she  said. 

His  reply  was,  "  We'll  rip  out  this  fireplace  and  put  you 
in  one  in  oak;  the  walls  something  between  gold  and 
brown,  eh?  Now  come  into  the  drawing-room.  This'U 
be  the  room.  Let's  start  with  the  hearth  and  imagine 
it's  winter.  This  is  where  we'll  have  tea  the  days  when  I 
get  back  in  time  —  " 

"  And  when  I  get  back  in  time." 

*'  Of  course,  Ld  forgotten  that.  Why,  then  which- 
ever of  us  is  back  first  will  be  all  ready  with  the  tea  and 
waiting  to  welcome  the  other.  Can't  you  see  the  room? 
Warm,  shadowed,  glowing  here  and  there,  here  and  there 
gleaming,  and  the  tea  table  shining?  Won't  it  be  a  place 
to  rush  back  to?  I  say,  Rosalie,  it's  going  to  be  rather 
wonderful,  isn't  it?  " 

Dear  Harry!     Yes,  men  that  married  for  a  home. 

So  she  had  known  that  from  the  start;  and,  the  signi- 
ficant thing  (as  later  perceived)  she  never  had  mentioned 
it  to  Harry.  There  was  not  a  line  of  her  life,  as  lived 
before  she  knew  him,  that  she  had  not  revealed  to  him; 
there  was  not  a  passage  of  her  life,  when  joined  to  his, 
that  was  not  handed  to  him  to  write  upon;  but  this,  that 
she  knew  he'd  married  for  a  home,  was  never  revealed, 


232  THIS  FREEDOM 

never  inscribed  upon  the  tablets  submitted  daily  for  his 
annotation. 

Yes,  significant! 

But  how  could  its  significance  have  been  perceived? 
Look  here,  there  had  been  a  night  —  a  thousand  years 
ago  1  —  when  a  girl  had  turned  her  face  to  her  pillow  and 
cried,  most  frightfully.  Significant!  Why,  that  girl's 
world  had  lain  in  atoms  at  the  significance  of  that  girl's 
grief.  And  she  that  now  looked  back  had  been  born  out 
of  those  tears,  as  the  first  woman  drawn  from  the  side 
of  the  first  man,  and  fondly  had  chid  that  child  that  no 
significance  was  there  at  all.  There  was  none.  There 
was  nothing  to  fear.  A  natural  joy  of  life  that  had  been 
stifled  had  been  embraced,  a  shattered  world  had  been 
remoulded  on  foundings  firmer  and,  ah,  nearer  to  the 
heart's  desire.  Significant !  It  had  been  so  disproved  that 
not  more  possibly  could  fears  arise  from  those,  her  lovely 
dissipations  of  those  fears,  than  from  its  watchful  moth- 
er's reassuring  candle  and  her  soothing  words  new  ter- 
rors to  a  frightened  child  at  night. 

Then  how,  she  used  to  ask  herself,  could  significance 
have  been  perceived  in  not  admitting  Harry  to  her  smiling 
thought  on  men  and  home?  Significance  —  then?  Nay, 
memory  bear  witness,  much,  much  the  contrary!  Bear 
witness,  memory,  it  was  that  very  thought  of  Harry  as 
boy  with  cave,  as  man  with  home,  had  suddenly  suffused 
her  with  .  .  . 

"  Dear  Harry !  "  she  had  thought,  and  with  the 
thought  .  .  . 

Anna!  That  cry  of  Anna's  upon  that  frightening 
night,  striking  her  hands  against  her  bosom,  "  I  have  a 
longing  —  here !  "  Never  till  then  its  meaning  nor  even 
thought  upon  its  meaning. 

Then  !  Upon  that  thought  —  "  Dear  Harry !  "  —  had 
come,  with  a  catch  at  the  breath  as  at  an  obscure  twinge  of 


THIS  FREEDOM  233 

pain,  a  tremor  of  the  sense  that  was  its  meaning :  there- 
after flooding  all  her  being  as  floods  a  flood  a  pasture. 
A  longing  to  be  mother,  Anna's  longing  was !  A  longing 
to  be  mother,  to  hold  a  tiny  scrap  against  her  breast;  to 
have  her  heart,  bursting  for  such  release,  torn  out  by- 
baby  fingers;  to  have  her  design  of  God,  insufferably 
overpacked  within  her  by  the  remorseless  pressure  of 
instinct  through  a  million  ages,  relieved,  discharged,  ful- 
filled by  motherhood.  Poor  Anna!  Ah,  piteous!  "  Oh, 
God,  thou  knowest  how  hard  it  is  to  be  a  woman."  Poor, 
piteous  Anna,  and  poor,  piteous  every  woman  that,  made 
vessel  of  this  yearning,  must  have  it  unfulfilled. 

Not  she ! 

The  coronet  of  love,  denied  poor  Anna,  was  hers. 
He'd  said  "  These  rooms  —  the  nurseries  " ;  the  crown 
of  love;  and  she  had  laughed! 

Oh,  stubborn  still !  Oh,  still  not  cognisant  of  nature^s 
dower  to  her  sex.  To  wear  the  coronet  and  to  refuse 
the  crown !  To  be  wife  and  not  to  be  mother !  To  think 
of  baby  fingers  and  to  think  to  put  away  the  offer  of  their 
baby  clutch ! 

That  girl  that  turned  her  face  to  her  pillow  and  began 
to  cry,  most  frightfully,  cried  next  again  when  she  again 
lay  abed  and  had  a  tiny  scrap,  an  ugly,  exquisite,  gro- 
tesque, miraculous  scrap,  a  baby  boy,  a  baby  man,  along 
her  arm  and  watched  it  there.  Those  had  been  passion- 
ate and  rending  tears;  these  did  not  even  flow.  Those 
burned  her  eyes ;  these  stood  within  her  eyes  a  lovely  well- 
ing up  of  pride  and  adoration,  drawn  from  her  by  this 
newly  risen  wonder  as  by  the  sun  at  his  arising  moisture 
in  lovely  mists  is  drawn  from  earth. 

Motherhood!  When  later  he  was  christened,  she  and 
Harry  named  him  Hugh;  but  it  was  a  caressing  diminu- 
tive she  made  out  of  his  name  by  which  he  was  always 


234  THIS  FREEDOM 

known.  Her  tiny  son!  His  tiny  arms  hugged  you  as 
never  tiny  arms  possibly  could  have  hugged  before  and 
so  she  called  him  "  Huggo." 

"  Harry,  if  you  could  feel  how  he's  hugging  me !  It's 
absurd  he  can  have  such  strength!  It's  ridiculous  he 
can  love  me  so!  And  how  can  he  possibly  know  that 
hugging's  a  sign  of  love?  Harry,  how  can  he?  Take 
him  and  hold  him  up  like  that  and  see  if  he  hugs  you  the 
same.     He  is!    He  is!     Isn't  he?  " 

"  Mice  and  Mumps,"  said  Harry,  "  he  is ;  he's  throt- 
tling me,  the  tiger." 

"  Ah,  give  him  back,  I'm  jealous.  There's  never,  never 
been  a  hugger  like  him  since  the  world  began.  He's 
Huggo.  That's  his  name.  Creature  straight  out  of 
heaven,  you're  Huggo." 

Her  love  for  infant  Huggo  so  maternal;  her  unity  with 
Harry  so  exquisitely  one:  how  could  she  have  known 
were  to  be  met  across  the  waters  of  the  years  occasions 
new  and  strange,  as  that  already  shown,  or,  onward  yet 
a  further  voyage,  as  this? 

The  matter  between  them  touched  the  same  as  when,  "  I 
have  a  right  to  a  home;  the  children  have  a  right  to  a 
home,"  Harry  had  said.  But  their  tones  not  the  same; 
in  Harry's  voice  a  quality  of  dulness  as  of  one  reciting 
a  lesson  too  often  conned  yet  never  understood;  in  hers 
a  certain  weariness  as  with  instruction  too  often  given. 

They  had  been  talking  a  very  long  time.  Harry  hadn't 
any  arguments.  He  just  kept  coming  back  and  coming 
back  to  the  one  thing.  He  said  again,  the  twentieth  time, 
in  that  dull  voice,  "  We  are  responsible  for  the  children. 
We  have  a  duty  towards  them." 

The  twentieth  time!  She  made  a  gesture,  not  impa- 
tient, just  tired,  that  was  of  repletion  with  this  thing. 
"  Ah,  you  say  *  we  '  have  a  duty.     You  say  *  we  ' ;  but, 


THIS  FREEDOM  235 

Harry,  you  mean  me.     Why  I  a  duty  more  than  you? 

Why  am  I  the  accused?  " 

Harry's  dull  note:     "  Because  you  are  a  woman." 
Ineffable  weariness  was  in  the  murmur  that  was  her 

reply.     "  Ah,  my  God,  that  reason !  " 
No,  she  had  never  anticipated  this. 


CHAPTER  V 

How  did  it  happen?  Within  her  face  abode  t.  t  ex- 
planation of  how  it  happened. 

There  was  a  mirage  in  her  face. 

If  she  were  taken  (for  a  moment)  when  she  had  been 
married  ten  years,  her  age  thirty-two,  and  then  taken 
again  when  she  was  forty-six,  when  she  had  done,  when, 
in  1922,  she  said,  "  I  have  done,"  and  her  story  ceases,  it 
is  material  to  a  portrait  of  her  that  in  those  fourteen  years 
her  appearance  did  not  greatly  change.  Events  inscribed 
it;  but  these  writings  were  in  two  scripts,  rendered  in 
the  two  natures  that  were  hers,  and,  as  it  were,  a  bal- 
ance was  maintained  between  them ;  there  remained  con- 
stant the  aspect  that  her  face  presented  to  the  world ;  con- 
stant, that  is  to  say,  the  spirit  that  looked  out  of  her 
face. 

That  girl  that  at  the  door  of  the  great  house  in  Pil- 
chester  Square  had  breathed,  "  You  knew,  before  I  knew, 
that  I  loved  you,"  had  been  called  beautiful.  This  woman 
that  now  was  wife  and  now  was  mother  was  beautiful 
with  that  girl's  beauty  and  with  her  own,  matured  of 
years,  set  upon  it.  That  girl,  shaded  in  her  colouring, 
commonly  was  sombre  in  her  hue,  but  with  a  quick,  im- 
petuous spirit  beneath  her  flesh  that,  flashing,  somehow 
lightened  all  her  tints ;  this  woman,  albeit  dark,  had  some- 
how about  her  a  deep  golden  hue  as  of  dusk  in  a  deep 
wood  beheld  against  a  sunset.  Her  face  had  always  had  a 
boyish  look  and  still,  with  years,  was  boyish.  There 
was  a  mirage  in  her  face.  The  stranger  glanced  and  saw 
a  mother  —  extraordinarily  shielding  and  maternal  and 


THIS  FREEDOM  237 

benignant  things;  and  looked  again  and  saw  a  boy  — 
astonishingly  reckless  and  impetuous  and  rather  boyish, 
hard  and  mutinous  things.  Or  glanced  and  saw  a  boy, 
perhaps  laughing  and  eager,  perhaps  obstinate  and  petu- 
lant; and  looked  again  and  only  much  tenderness  was 
there. 

There  was  a  mirage  in  her  face;  and  with  its  changes 
her  voice  changed.  When  she  was  a  boy  her  voice  was 
April;  when  she  was  a  mother  September  was  her  voice. 

There  were  two  natures  in  her  and  those  were  their 
reflections;  two  lodestars  set  above  her  that  by  turns 
brightened  and  drew  her  gaze;  two  lodestones  set  within 
her  that  claimed  her  banners  as  claim  the  moon  and 
earth  the  inconstant  sea;  one  of  head,  one  of  heart;  one 
of  choice,  one  of  dower;  one  of  will,  one  of  nature. 

In  that  tenth  year  her  married  life  there  stood  for  the 
mother  in  her  face  three  children :  Huggo  who  then  was 
nine;  Dora,  whom  she  called  Doda  because  in  her  first 
prattle  this  heart's  delight  of  hers — "A  baby  girl!  A 
beloved  one,  Harry,  to  be  daughter  to  me,  and  to  be  a 
tiny  woman  with  me  as  little  girls  always  are,  and  then 
budding  up  beside  me  and  being  myself  to  me  again, 
my  baby  girl,  my  daughter,  my  woman-bud,  my  heart's 
own  heart !"  —  had  thus  pronounced  her  name,  who  then 
was  seven;  and  last  Benjamin,  then  five,  whom  she  named 
Benjamin  because,  come  third,  come  after  cognizance  of 
confliction  within  herself,  come  after  resentment  of  his 
coming  —  called  Benjamin  because,  come  out  of  such, 
there  were  such  happy  tears,  such  tender,  thank-God, 
charged  with  meaning  tears  to  greet  him,  the  one  the  last 
of  three,  the  little  tiny  one,  so  wee  beside  the  lusty,  tod- 
dling others.  Benjamin  she  told  Harry  he  must  be 
named;  Benji  she  always  called  him. 

Huggo  and  Doda  and  Benji!  Her  children!  Her 
darling  ones,  her  lovely  ones!     Love's  crown;  and,  what 


238  THIS    FREEDOM 

was  more,  worn  in  the  persons  of  these  darling  joys  of 
hers  (when  they  were  growing  up  to  nine  and  seven  and 
five  years  old)  in  signal,  almost  arrogant  in  her  disdain 
of  precedent  to  the  contrary,  that  woman  might  be 
mother  and  yet  work  freely  in  the  markets  of  the  world 
precisely  as  man  is  father  but  follows  a  career. 

Children !  There  had  been  a  time  when,  speaking  from 
the  boy  that  would  stand  mutinous  and  reckless  in  her 
face,  and  with  her  April  voice,  she  had  expressed  her  view 
on  parentage  in  terms  of  the  old  resentment  at  the  old 
disability,  encountered,  bedrocked,  wherever  into  life 
she  struck  a  new  trail;  in  terms  of  the  old  invertion  of 
an  old  conceit  wherever  with  her  principles  she  touched 
conventional  opinion.  The  catlike  attributes,  the  mar- 
riage for  a  home,  here  the  familiar  saw  on  parenthood  — 

"  They  talk  about  hostages  to  fortune,"  she  had  ex- 
pressed her  idea,  "  they  talk  about  a  man  with  young 
children  as  having  given  hostages  to  fortune.  You  know, 
it's  quite  absurd.  He  doesn't.  I  don't  say  a  man  to 
whom  the  support  of  children  is  a  financial  anxiety  hasn't, 
by  begetting  them,  placed  himself  in  a  position  of  cap- 
tivity to  fortune,  or  to  the  future,  or  whatever  you  like 
to  call  it.  He  very  much  has.  He's  backed  a  bill  that 
any  day  may  fall  due  and  find  him  without  means  to 
meet  it;  he's  let  himself  in  for  blackmail,  always  over  him 
a  threat.  But  I'm  talking  about  men  above  the  struggle 
line.  They  don't,  in  their  children,  give  hostages.  It's 
the  woman  does  that.  Men  don't  give  nor  forfeit  any- 
thing. It's  the  woman  gives  and  forfeits.  Why,  when 
his  friends  meet  a  man  who  was  last  met  a  bachelor  a 
couple  or  three  years  ago,  what  change  do  they  see  in 
him  ?  They  don't  see  any  change  at  all.  There  isn't  any 
change  to  see.  He  has  to  tell  them;  and  he  always  tells 
them  rather  sheepishly  or  rather  boisterously.  '  I'm  mar- 
ried, you  know,'  he  says.     '  Yes,  rather.     Man  alive,  I've 


THIS  FREEDOM  239 

got  two  kids !  '  The  other  says,  '  My  aunt !  '  —  more 
probably  he  says  '  My  God !  '  —  '  My  God,  fancy  you !  ' 
And  they  both  laugh  —  laugh  ! 

"  Hostages  to  fortune !  To  a  man  and  amongst  men 
it's  just  a  joke.  It's  no  joke  to  a  woman.  Do  you  sup- 
pose a  married  girl,  meeting  old  friends,  has  to  tell  them 
she's  a  mother,  or,  if  she  had  to  tell  them,  would  tell 
them  like  that?  Can't  they  see  it  at  a  glance?  Isn't  she 
changed?  Isn't  she,  subtly  perhaps,  but  unmistakably,  al- 
together different  from  the  unfettered  thing  she  used  to 
be?  Of  course  she  is.  How  otherwise?  She's  given 
hostages  to  fortune  and  she's  paying;  she's  being  bled. 
She's  giving  up  things,  she's  not  going  out  so  much,  she's 
not  reading  so  much,  she's  not  playing  so  much,  she's  not 
interested  so  much  in  what  used  to  interest  her.  How 
can  she?  There's  the  children.  How  can  she?  She's 
given  hostages  to  fortune.  Oh,  happy  is  the  man  that 
hath  children  for  they  are  as  arrows  in  the  quiver  of  a 
giant.  But  it's  the  woman  is  the  arrowbearer !  It's  the 
woman  pays." 

Lo,  there  had  come  to  this  intolerance  the  longing  — 
"  Here !  "  —  that  Anna's  bosom  had,  the  urge  to  hold 
a  tiny  scrap  against  her  breast,  to  have  her  heart,  burst- 
ing for  such  release,  torn  out  by  baby  fingers.  It  had 
o'erborne  the  other.  She  had  thrown  herself  upon  its 
flood ;  not  yielded  to  it  as  one  drawn  in  by  rising  waters, 
but  tempestuously  engulfed  by  it  and  borne  away  upon 
it  as  swallowed  up  and  borne  away  in  Harry's  arms  when 
"  Rosalie !     Rosalie !  "  he  had  cried  to  her. 

That  which  the  subsidence  revealed,  adoringly  she 
called  her  Huggo. 

There  was  a  mirage  in  her  face.  When,  turned  again 
towards  the  star  to  which  she  showed  her  boyish  and  im- 
petuous look,  and,  following,  she  felt  again  the  call  that  set 
the  mother  in  her  face,  she  this  time  reasoned.    That  idea 


240  THIS  FREEDOM 

that,  having  children,  it  was  the  woman  who  gave  hos- 
tages to  fortune!  Deadly  and  cruelly  true  it  was,  but 
only  by  convention.  Why  should  it  be  so  ?  Why  should 
motherhood  that  was  the  crown  of  love,  of  woman's  life, 
be  paid  for  in  coin  that  no  man  was  called  upon  to  pay? 
Unjust;  and  need  not  be!  She  perfectly  well  had  carried 
on  her  work  with  Huggo.  Sleeping  was  the  adored  crea- 
ture's chief  lot  in  life.  If  she  had  ever  thought  (which 
she  never  had)  of  giving  up  her  work  and  staying  at 
home  on  his  account,  what  could  she  have  done  but  twirl 
her  thumbs  and  watch  him  sleep  and  in  his  lovely  lively 
hours  superintend  the  nurse  who  required  no  superin- 
tendence? As  it  was  she  was  about  him  in  the  delicious 
exercises  of  transporting  him  from  cot  through  toilet  and 
refreshment  to  readiness  to  take  the  air.  His  lordship 
was  off  in  his  lordship's  perambulator  by  nine  o'clock 
every  morning.  She  did  not  herself  leave,  with  Harry, 
till  shortly  before  ten.  There,  in  instance,  was  an  hour 
at  home  with  not  the  smallest  benefit  to  Huggo.  It  would 
have  been  the  same,  had  she  remained  at  home,  with  three 
in  four  of  all  the  other  hours.  Ridiculous  to  lay  down 
that  a  mother,  having  a  good  nurse  and  a  well-ordered 
house  and  a  husband  out  all  day,  must  tie  herself  there, 
abandoning  her  own  life,  to  attend  her  children!  Chil- 
dren !  Darlings  of  her  own !  Ease  for  this  yearning  in 
her  heart,  assumption  of  this  lovely  glory  that  was  her 
natural  right!  Yes,  she  had  proved  love  not  to  be  in- 
compatible with  her  freedom;  she  would  show  mother- 
hood as  beautifully  could  be  joined. 

It  seemed  to  her  a  blessing  upon,  and  an  assurance  in, 
her  purpose  that  in  the  precious  person  of  a  little  daughter 
came  the  embodiment  of  this  reasoning  and  of  this  design. 
A  baby  girl !  A  tiny  woman-bud  to  be  a  woman  with  her 
in  the  house  of  Harry  and  of  Huggo!  A  woman  treas- 
ury into  which  she  could  pour  her  woman  love !     Her 


THIS  FREEDOM  241 

self's  own  self,  whose  earliest  speech  chose  for  herself 
her  name  —  her  Doda ! 

It  all  worked  splendidly.  Winged  on  the  eager  pin- 
ions of  their  individual  lives  these  two  nested  their  joined 
life  in  a  home  that  for  every  inmate  was  a  perfect  home; 
perfect  for  a  husband,  perfect  for  a  wife,  perfect  for  the 
babies,  perfect  for  the  servants.  The  peace  of  every  home 
in  civilized  society  rests  ultimately  on  the  kitchen,  and  the 
peace  of  half  the  homes  known  to  Harry  and  to  Rosalie 
was  in  constant  rupture  by  upheavals  thence.  Not  so  be- 
hind the  gamboge  door.  Rosalie  always  granted  it  to 
men  that,  as  was  commonly  said,  servants  worked  better 
for  men.  Men  kept  out  of  the  irrational  creatures'  way; 
that  was  about  it.  The  conduct  of  her  life  gave  her  the 
like  advantage.  Giving  her  orders  before  she  left  the 
house,  she  was  out  all  day  and  never  unexpectedly  in. 
Positively  the  servants  welcomed  her  on  her  return  at 
five  o'clock ! 

The  babies,  to  whom  then  she  flew,  were  with  a  per- 
fect nurse.  Harry  had  helped  in  her  appointment.  She 
had  come  one  evening,  early  in  the  life  of  Huggo,  when 
a  change  had  to  be  made  from  the  nurse  who  specialised 
only  up  to  the  point  then  reached  by  Huggo,  and  she  had 
presented  herself  to  them,  seated  together  in  Harry's 
study,  a  short  body,  one  shape  and  a  solid  shape  from  her 
shoulders  to  her  shoes,  who  announced  her  name  as  Muf- 
fett. 

"  Miss  Mufifett,  I  hope,"  said  Harry  gravely. 

"  Unmarried,  sir,"  said  Muffett  with  equal  gravity 
and  with  a  sudden  drop  and  then  recover}'  of  her  stature 
as  though  some  one  had  knocked  her  behind  the  knees. 

"  There's  nothing  to  do,"  said  Harry  when  she  had 
gone,  "but  to  buy  her  a  tuffet  and  engage  her  " ;  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do,   when   she  was  installed,  but 


242  THIS  FREEDOM 

enjoy  the  babies  and  delight  in  them  just  as  a  man  en- 
joys and  dehghts  in  his  tiny  ones,  —  in  the  early  morn- 
ings before  Rosalie  left  for  her  work,  in  the  evenings 
when  she  returned  home. 

It  all  worked  splendidly.  In  those  early  years,  when 
two  were  in  the  nursery  and  as  yet  no  third,  there  wasn't 
a  sign  that  Harry  who  had  married  for  a  home  ever  could 
say,  "  I  have  a  right  to  a  home."  He  had,  and  he  was 
often  saying  so,  the  most  perfect  home.  He  came  not 
home  of  a  night  to  a  wife  peevish  with  domestic  frets 
and  solitary  confinement  and  avid  he  should  hear  the 
tale  of  them,  nor  yet  to  one  that  butterflied  the  day  long 
between  idleness  and  pleasures  and  gave  him  what  was 
left.  He  came  nightly  to  a  home  that  his  wife  sought 
as  eagerly  as  he  sought,  a  place  of  rest  well-earned  and 
peace  well-earned.  That  was  it !  "  Things  which  are 
equal  to  the  same  thing  are  equal  to  each  other."  They 
had  discovered  and  had  removed  the  worm  of  disparity 
that  eats  away  the  heart  of  countless  marriages.  They 
not  infrequently  had  friends  in  to  dinner,  not  infre- 
quently dined  at  the  tables  of  friends,  made  a  point  of 
not  infrequently  attending  a  theatre  or  a  concert;  but 
however  the  evening  had  been  passed  —  and  the  even- 
ings alone  were  always  agreed  to  be  the  best  evenings 
of  all  —  there  was  none  but  they  ended  sitting  together, 
not  in  the  drawing-room,  but  in  Harry's  study  or  in 
hers,  just  talking  happiness.  Equal  in  endeavour,  they 
were  thereby  made  equal  on  every  plane  and  in  every  taste. 
A  reciprocating  machine.     That  was  it ! 

At  least  that  was  how,  profoundly  satisfied  with  it,  she 
thought  it  was. 

Then  Benji  came. 


CHAPTER  VI 

There  were  attendant  upon  the  expectation  and  the 
coming  of  Benji  certain  processes  of  mind  that  had  not 
been  with  Huggo  or  with  Doda.  When  it  was  in  prospect 
she  had  vexation,  sometimes  a  sense  of  injury,  that  again 
her  work  was  to  be  interrupted.  It  would  make  no  dif- 
ference to  Harry.  It  happened  that  the  days  of  her  trial 
were  timed  to  fall  on  the  date  when  a  criminal  prosecu- 
tion of  sensational  public  interest  was  due  for  hearing  at 
the  Old  Bailey.  Harry,  for  the  defence,  had  added  im- 
mensely to  his  brilliant  reputation  when  seeing  it  through 
the  preliminary  stages  before  the  magistrate.  The  Old 
Bailey  proceedings  were  to  be  the  greatest  event,  thus  far, 
in  his  career.  He  had  told  her  —  how  proud  and  delighted 
to  hear  it  she  had  been !  —  that  if  he  pulled  it  off  (and  he 
had  set  his  heart  on  pulling  it  off)  he  would  really  begin 
to  think  about  "  taking  silk." 

Well,  but  she  also  had  her  heart,  in  no  single  or  sen- 
sational climax  of  her  work,  but  in  its  every  phase  and 
every  hour.  It  absorbed  her.  Two  years  earlier  Mr. 
Simcox  had  begun  disturbing  signs  of  health  that,  begun, 
developed  rapidly.  His  brisk  activity  went  out  of  him. 
His  walk  had  the  odd  suggestion  of  one  carrying  a  load. 
His  perky  air  went  dull.  His  mind  was  like  a  flagging 
watch,  run  down.  He  could  not  concentrate,  he  suffered 
passages  of  aphasia,  he  began  more  and  more  to  "  give 
up  the  office,"  more  and  more  to  leave  things  to  her.  The 
agency  in  both  its  branches,  scholastic  and  insurance,  de- 
veloped well.  She  was  its  head  and  it  absorbed  her. 
She  had  a  sense,  that  was  like  wine  to  her,  of  increasing 


244  THIS  FREEDOM 

swiftness  of  decision,  of  power,  of  judgment,  of  vision, 
of  resource.  She  used  to  hurry  to  her  office  of  a  morn- 
ing as  an  artist  urgent  with  inspiration  will  hurry  to  his 
colours,  or  a  poet  to  his  pen,  —  avid  to  exercise  that  which 
was  within  her. 

Well,  it  was  to  be  stopped.  Childbed.  For  a  month 
at  least,  for  two  months  more  likely,  all  was  to  be  set 
aside,  to  go  into  abeyance,  to  drift.  Whereas  Harry's 
work.  .  .  .  Yes,  vexatious !  These  laws  that  gave  men 
the  desirable  place  in  life  were  not  laws  but  conventions 
and  she  had  proved  them  such ;  but  with  all  proved  there 
yet  remained  to  the  man  privileges,  to  the  woman  re- 
straints, that  were  ordinances  fundamental  and  not  to 
be  escaped.     Yes,  injurious! 

Thus  in  those  weeks  of  the  coming  of  him  that  was  to 
be  Benji,  solely  the  boy  of  aspect  mutinous  and  impetu- 
ous was  in  her  face;  and  when  within  a  month  stood  her 
appointed  time  came  an  event  that  stiffened  there  that 
aspect,  turned  it,  indeed,  actively  upon  the  child  within 
her  waiting  deliverance.  This  event  in  its  momentous 
incidence  on  her  career  placed  its  occasion  on  parity  with 
Harry's  anticipations  of  the  Old  Bailey  trial.  Mr.  Sim- 
cox  died. 

There's  no  use  labouring  why  the  emotions  that  at  this 
loss  should  have  been  hers  were  not  hers.  That  girl 
whose  eyes  had  gathered  tears  at  the  picture  of  the  little 
figure  with  flapping  jacket  peering  through  the  curtains 
at  the  postman's  "  rat-tat-flick  "  was  not  present  in  the 
woman  whose  first  thought  at  the  sudden  news,  brought 
to  her  seated  in  her  office,  was,  "  At  such  a  time !  Just 
when  —  Now  what  is  to  be  done?"  True  for  her  that 
there  followed  gentle  feelings,  and  gentler  yet  in  her  at- 
tendance on  her  patron's  obsequies,  in  the  discovery  that 
all  of  which  he  died  possessed  he'd  left  to  her,  but  it  is 
the  duller  surfaces  that  are  slowest  to  give  refraction, 


THIS  FREEDOM  245 

the  least  used  springs  that  are  least  pliant.  She  was  come 
a  long  road  from  her  first  signs  of  hardening.  She  was 
past,  now,  the  stage  where,  when  grieving  for  the  little 
old  man,  she  would  have  felt  contrition  that  her  first 
thought  at  his  death  had  been,  not  of  him,  but  of  his 
death's  effect  upon  ner  work. 

And  there  supervened,  immediately,  interests  that 
caused  the  passing  of  Mr.  Simcox  merely  —  to  have 
passed. 

Mr.  Sturgiss,  of  Field  and  Company,  attending  the 
funeral  with  her,  said  to  her  as  he  was  taking  his  leave, 
"  One  would  say  this  isn't  a  moment  to  be  talking  of 
other  things,  business  things,  but  after  all  —  In  a  way 
it  is  the  moment.  You'll  be  making  new  arrangements 
and  rearrangements  now.  Before  you  start  settling  any- 
thing I  want  you  to  have  in  mind  the  old  proposition. 
You've  been  loyal  to  poor  Simcox  to  the  end.  This  busi- 
ness is  your  own  now.  We  want  it.  We  want  you. 
We  want  you  in  Lombard  Street." 

This,  cut  and  dried,  glowingly  enlarged  in  long  inter- 
views with  Mr.  Sturgiss  and  Mr.  Field,  succinctly  reduced 
to  writing  by  the  firm  that  it  might  be  fairly  studied, 
was  before  her,  not  demanding,  but  eagerly  absorbing, 
her  most  earnest  attention  when  she  was  a  fortnight  from 
her  trial.  This  was  the  event  whose  momentous  inci- 
dence on  her  career  placed  the  days  then  in  process  and 
immediately  in  prospect  on  parity  of  importance  with 
their  meaning  to  Harry,  absorbed  in  preparation  for  his 
case.  There  was  so  much  to  weigh ;  and  like  a  threat,  a 
doom,  banked  her  impending  banishment  from  affairs, 
distracting  her,  haunting  her,  hurrying  her.  There  was 
so  much  to  do,  to  settle,  to  wind  up  ( for  she  found  her- 
self arranging  for  the  change  even  while  she  debated 
it)  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  she  was  to  be  cut  off  as  by 
term  of  imprisonment!     There  was  so  much  to  scheme. 


246  THIS  FREEDOM 

to  plan,  to  dream  (her  mind  already  elevated  among  the 
high  places  of  her  new  outlook)  ;  and  between  now  and 
action  she  was  to  go  —  out  of  action. 

Whereas  Harry,  .  .  .  Whose  child  it  was  also  to 
be.  .   .   . 

Yes,  injurious! 

Not  injurious  as  between  dear  Harry  and  herself;  but 
injurious  as  between  his  sex  and  hers.  There  were 
moments  of  thinking  upon  the  difference  when  she  could 
have  conceived  a  grudge  against  the  child  she  was  to 
bear. 

And  Elarry  could  not  perceive  the  difference !  Im- 
mersed in  his  preparations  and,  when  the  case  opened, 
lost  to  all  else  in  his  case,  he  presented  precisely  that  fa- 
culty (and  that  permission  by  convention)  of  complete 
detachment  from  his  home  that  long  she  had  known  to 
be  man's  most  outstanding  and  most  enviable  quality. 
He  had  no  attention  to  spare  for  the  consideration  of  her 
own  problem  and  ambition,  and  she  was  too  honourable 
to  his  interests,  and  too  devoted  to  him  in  his  interests, 
to  bother  him  with  hers.  But,  more  significantly  to  her 
feelings  than  that,  he  was  also  too  immersed  to  offer  her, 
in  her  ordeal  of  childbirth,  the  sympathy  and  the  anxiety 
that,  unengrossed,  he  would  have  shown.  It  was  there, 
profound  and  loving,  beneath  the  surface;  but  his  work 
came  first.  He  was  a  man,  capable  of  detachment,  per- 
mitted by  convention  to  practise  detachment,  by  gift  o£ 
nature  not  inhibited  from  detachment.  A  man,  he  could 
put  it  beneath  the  surface.  A  woman,  in  conflict  of  her 
instincts  and  her  ambitions,  it  was  her  ambitions  that  she 
must  sink.     That  was  it!     Yes,  injurious. 

And  he  did  not  even  understand. 

On  what  proved  to  be  the  evening  before  her  delivery, 
and  was  the  third  day  of  Harry's  case,  she  was  lying,  as 
she  had  lain  some  days,  on  the  Chesterfield  in  the  drawing- 


THIS  FREEDOM  247 

room,  loosely  robed.  Harry  had  thought  he  could  get 
back  to  tea,  and  got  back.  He  came  to  her  with  tenderest 
concern,  and  with  immense  tenderness  at  once  was  talking 
to  her.  But  she  could  see!  The  apparent  deepening  of 
all  the  lines  of  his  dear,  striking  face,  as  of  one  who  for 
hours  has  been  under  enormous  concentration;  the  slight 
huskiness  of  his  voice,  from  hard  service;  the  repressed 
excitation  in  his  air;  the  frequent  glint  behind  the  soft 
regard  of  his  eyes,  as  of  one  that  has  been  hunting  high 
and  hunting  well  —  she  could  see ;  she  could  tell  where 
was  his  spirit! 

Her  own  went  lovingly  to  meet  it  where  it  was.  "  Ah, 
never  mind  all  that,  Harry.  Tell  me  all  that's  been  hap- 
pening to  you.    How  is  it  going,  Harry?  " 

Dear  Harry!  Most  mannish  man !  She  laughed  (and 
he  laughed  too,  knowing  perfectly  well  why  she  laughed) 
to  note  the  delight,  like  a  dog  from  chain,  with  which 
he  bounded  off  into  his  mind's  absorption.  He  sat  up- 
right. He  grabbed  for  a  cigarette  and  inhaled  it  tremen- 
dously. "  It's  going  like  cutting  butter  with  a  hot  knife. 
I  started  cross-examining  today.  I  gave  him  three  and 
a  half  hours  of  it,  straight  off  the  ice,  and  I'm  not  through 
with  him  yet.  Not  half.  If  he  had  as  many  legs  as  a 
centipede  he'd  still  not  have  one  left  to  stand  on  when 
I'm  through  with  him.  I  doubt  he'll  have  his  marrow 
bones  to  crawl  out  on,  the  way  he's  crumpling  up.  Even 
old  Hounslow  at  his  worst  can't  possibly  misdirect  the 
jury,  the  way  I've  gummed  their  noses  on  the  trail.  I'll 
tell  you  — " 

He  told  her. 

She  had  put  out  both  her  hands  and  taken  one  of  his. 
"  It's  splendid,  Harry.  It's  too  splendid.  How  de- 
lighted I  am,  and  proud,  proud!  No  one  would  have 
imagined  it  at  the  beginning.  What  a  triumph  it  will  be 
for  you !  " 


248  THIS  FREEDOM 

His  grasp  squeezed  hers  in  fond  response.  "  Why, 
it  won't  do  me  any  harm,"  he  agreed.  His  tone  was  Hght. 
He  released  his  hand  and  took  up  a  cup  of  tea,  and  his 
tone  went  deep.  "  Mind  you,  I'm  glad  about  it,"  he  said, 
and  stirred  the  spoon  thoughtfully  within  the  cup.  He 
had  come  into  the  room  declaring  he  was  dying  for  some 
tea,  but  he  had  touched  none,  and  he  now  replaced  the  cup 
untasted  on  the  table  and  she  saw  on  his  face  the  deep 
"inward"  look  that  she  knew  (and  loved)  for  the  sign 
of  intense  concentration  of  his  mind.  "  Yes,  glad,"  he 
spoke ;  his  voice,  as  was  its  habit  when  he  was  "  inward," 
sounding  as  though  it  was  the  involuntary,  and  not  the 
intentional,  utterance  of  his  thoughts.  "  I've  gone  all 
out  over  this  case.  I  saw,  the  minute  they  briefed  me, 
that  one  tiny  flaw,  his  neglect  to  take  up  that  option  — 
you  remember,  I  told  you  —  right  down  at  the  bottom 
of  the  whole  tangle,  and  I  went  plumb  down  for  it  and 
hung  on  to  it  and  fought  it  up  like,  like  a  diver  coming 
up  from  fathoms  down." 

She  had  a  quickness  of  imagery.  It  constantly  de- 
lighted him.  "  Yes,  that's  good,"  she  declared.  "  Up 
like  a  diver,  Harry.  Not  with  goggles  and  a  helmet 
and  all  that,  but  shot  up  like  a  flash,  all  shining  and  glis- 
tening and  triumphant  with  the  jewel  aloft.  What  a  shout 
there'd  be !     Dear  Harry !    You're  splendid !  " 

He  smiled  most  lovingly.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
feel  I  ought  to  make  a  mess  of  it.  It'll  be  the  first  big 
case  since  we've  been  together  that,  while  it's  been  on, 
we  haven't  had  talks  about.  You  couldn't,  of  course, 
with  this  so  near  to  you.  It  would  be  significant,  and 
proper,  if  I  drowned  in  it." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Absurd!  Why,  the  thing  I'm 
most  glad  about,  Harry,  is  that  all  this  "  —  she  indicated 
with  a  gesture  her  pose,  her  dress,  her  condition  —  "  that 
all  this  hasn't  in  the  least  upset  your  work.     It  might 


THIS  FREEDOM  249 

have.    It  hasn't  —  and  when  it  happens,  it  won't,  will  it  ?  " 

Harry  said,  "  I'm  rather  ashamed  to  say  it  hasn't,  in 
the  least.  I've  thought  of  you,  often,  but  I've  simply  put 
the  thought  away.  And  when  it  happens,  I  shall  think 
of  you  —  terribly  —  going  through  it;  and  of  the  small 
thing.  But  we  shall  be  in  the  crisis  of  the  case  and  I  shall 
have  to  forget  you.  I'll  have  to,  Rosalie,  as  I  have  had 
to.     The  work  must  go  on." 

She  agreed  emphatically.  "  Of  course  it  must."  She 
then  said,  "  Whereas  mine  —  " 

He  did  not  attend  her.  The  "  inward  "  look  was  deep 
upon  his  face.  There  was  the  suggestion  of  a  grimmish 
smile  about  his  mouth.  One  could  have  guessed  that  he 
was  rehearsing,  with  satisfaction,  his  enormous  applica- 
tion while  the  work  was  going  on. 

She  gave  a  sound  of  laughter,  and  that  aroused  him. 
"What's  the  joke?" 

"Why,  just  how  this  does  rather  illuminate  the 
point —  " 

"  The  point  .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Your  work  and  mine  —  a  man's  and  a  woman's." 

"  Yes,  tell  me,  dear." 

"  Why,  Harry,  I  do  think  of  it  sometimes.  We've 
planned  it  and  arranged  it  and  settled  it  so  nicely,  these 
years,  and  you  see  the  big  thing  in  marriage  comes  along 
and  shatters  it  to  bits.  Your  work  goes  on  precisely  as  if 
nothing  at  all  were  happening ;  mine  has  to  stand  by." 

"  Ah,  but  this,"  Harry  said,  and  in  his  turn  indicated 
her  condition.  "  This  —  this  is  different.  We  agreed, 
before  Huggo,  that  if  we  had  children  it  need  make  no 
difference  to  you,  to  your  work,  in  a  way.  And  it  hasn't, 
and  needn't  now  —  when  it's  over.  But  this  time,  this 
period,  why,  that's  bound  to  interfere." 

"  But  it  doesn't  interfere  with  you.     It  shows  the  dif- 


ference." 


250  THIS  FREEDOM 

"  Oh,  it  shows  the  difference,"  he  assented. 

His  tone  was  conspicuously  careless,  conceding  the 
difference  but  attaching  to  it  no  importance  at  all ;  and 
with  it  he  rose  —  she  had  instantly  the  impression  of  him 
as  it  were  brushing  the  difference  like  a  crumb  from  his 
lap  —  and  announced,  "  I'm  going  to  my  study  now  for 
a  couple  of  hours  before  dinner.  I  must.  Our  solicitor's 
coming  in."  He  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  lovingly. 
"  You  understand,  I  know." 

And  he  went. 

Yes,  it  showed  the  difference !  And  was  not  seen  by 
him!    Yes,  injurious.    Yes,  could  conceive  a  grudge.  .   .   . 

There  was  a  mirage  in  her  face.  Her  face,  that  had 
been  boy's  and  mutinous  these  weeks,  was  Mary's  and 
was  lovely  in  maternal  love  when  it  was  turned  towards 
the  scrap  that  on  a  morning  lay  against  her  breast ;  her 
thoughts,  that  had  been  stubborn,  hard,  resentful  while 
her  days  approached,  willed  in  remorse,  compassion, 
yearning,  joy,  when  they  were  past  and  this  was  come. 
She'd  grudged  him,  this  littlest  one!  Grudged  his  right, 
put  her  own  right  against  it,  this  tiny,  helpless  one ! 
When,  added  to  these  thoughts,  Huggo  and  Doda,  those 
lovely  darlings,  were  permitted  to  see  him,  asleep  beside 
her,  he  was  so  wee,  so  almost  nothing  against  their  sturdy 
limbs,  and  had  come  so  unwanted  —  yes,  unwanted,  this 
cherishable  one  of  all !  —  that  she  knew  instantly  what 
name  he  must  be  given.     Her  Benjamin! 

Lying  much  alone  in  the  succeeding  days,  contrite, 
adoring;  with  frequent  happy  tears  (she  was  left  weak)  ; 
with  tender,  thank-God,  charged  with  meaning  tears,  she 
found  a  vindication  of  her  self-reproach  that  immensely 
bound  her  up,  forgave  her,  gave  her  comfort.  She  could 
give  up  her  work !  She  could  leave  all  and  be  with  her 
darlings!     Of  course  she   could!     At  any  time!     She 


THIS  FREEDOM  251 

had  grudged  the  right  to  come  of  this  defenceless  scrap. 
She  had  set  against  his  right  her  own  right.  Ah,  dan- 
gerous! A  long  road  lay  that  way!  In  conflict  of  his 
coming,  with  her  own  rights  she  had  been  much  engaged. 
Here,  on  the  sheet  beside  her,  and  in  the  nursery,  over- 
head, were  other  rights.  Well,  when  they  claimed.  .  .  . 
Of  course  she  could!  She  had  not  thought  enough  about 
these  things.  .   .    . 

There  is  to  be  said  for  her  that  she  thought  not  very 
widely  nor  very  deeply  upon  them  now.  Her  resolution 
that  she  could,  when  it  was  necessary,  give  up  her  work, 
scattered  them.  It  came  to  her  as  comes  to  a  man,  beset 
by  poverty,  scheming  by  this  way  and  by  that  to  abate 
it,  news  of  a  legacy.  He  ceases,  in  his  relief,  his  present 
schemes;  he  has  "no  need  to  worry  now."  Or  came 
to  her  as  comes  a  sail  to  one  shipwrecked  and  adrift,  pain- 
fully calculating  out  his  final  dregs  of  food  and  water. 
He  ceases,  at  that  emblem,  his  desperate  plans  to  stretch 
his  days.     He's  all  right  now. 

It  was  like  that  with  Rosalie. 

While  only  she  had  realised  her  resentment  of  this 
baby's  claims,  and  only  now  her  contrite  yielding  to  them ; 
before  she  had  conjectured  deeply  on  all  the  problem  thus 
revealed;  there  came  to  her,  like  way  of  escape  to  one 
imprisoned,  like  instantaneous  lifting  of  a  fog  to  one 
therein  occluded,  the  thought,  "  I  can  give  up  the  work." 

Of  course  she  could!  At  any  moment;  by  a  word; 
by  the  mere  formulation  of  the  step  within  her  mind, 
she  could  abandon  her  career.  Not  now.  It  was  not 
necessary  now.  But  if  or  when  —  she  used  that  phrase, 
in  set  terms  propounding  her  resolution  to  herself  —  if 
or  when  the  call  of  her  children,  of  her  home,  came  and 
was  paramount,  she  could  give  up  everything  and  respond 
to  it.  Oh,  happy !  Oh,  glad  discharge  of  her  remorse ! 
When  the  children  wanted  her  she  could  just  —  come 


252  THIS  FREEDOM 

back.  Field  and  Company,  her  career,  her  successes  — 
what  of  them?  She  had  done  well  in  her  career,  she 
still  would  do  well.  Let  the  claim  of  home  and  children 
once  come  into  the  scale  against  the  claim  of  those  am- 
bitions and  —  she  would  just  come  back ! 

Oh,  happy! 

"  Come  back  "  ?  Who  was  it  had  said  something  about 
that,  something  about  "  come  back  "  for  a  woman,  mak- 
ing the  expression  thus  dimly  familiar  in  her  mind? 
Who?  Laetitia?  No,  Laetitia  was  always  associated 
with  another  phrase :  striking  because  in  terms  identical 
with  accusation  previously  delivered  against  her.  Well 
she  remembered  it!  On  the  day  following  Harry's  visit 
to  the  house  to  take  his  deserts  from  poor  Aunt 
Belle  and  Uncle  Pyke,  she  also  had  gone  there,  follow- 
ing his  high  idea  of  what  was  right.  She  had  been 
refused  admittance.  There  had  come  for  her  as  the 
last  voice  out  of  that  house  a  quivering  letter  from 
Aunt  Belle,  seeming  to  quiver  in  the  hand  with  the  pas- 
sionate upbraiding  that  had  indited  it,  and  a  forlorn  sen- 
tence from  Laetitia.  "  I  have  done  everything  for  you, 
everything,  everything,  and  this  is  how  you  have  re- 
warded me,"  had  pulsed  the  pages  of  Aunt  Belle;  Laetitia 
only  had  written : 

"  Oh,  Rosalie !  You  could  have  had  any  one  you  liked  to 
love  you,  but  you  took  my  Harry  and  I  shall  never,  never 
have  another." 

Miss  Salmon's  cry  again !  Twice  identically  accused. 
Once  grotesquely  accused;  once,  on  the  surface,  rightly 
accused.  Both  times  aware  how  poignant  and  pathetic 
was  the  cry;  not  moved  the  first  time,  not  moved  the 
second.  Recurring  to  her  now,  she  knew  again  how 
broken-hearted  sad  it  was,  and  knew  again  it  ought  to 
move,  but  did  not.     Well,  not  strange  now.     She  was 


THIS  FREEDOM  253 

a  long  way  out  of  those  too  soft  compassions.  No,  not 
Laetitia  had  made  "  come  back  "  famiHar  to  her.  The 
phrase,  as  she  seemed  to  recollect  its  context,  was  too  pro- 
foundly practical  for  the  Laetitia  sort ;  and  that  was  why, 
of  course,  it  moved  her  nothing.  She  had  learnt,  jostling 
off  corners  in  the  market  place,  what  formerly  she  had 
only  conjectured,  —  that  there  was  in  life  no  room  for 
sentiment,  it  clogged;  it  hampered;  it  brought  sticky  un- 
reality into  that  which  was  sharply  real.  "  Come  back?  " 
No,  not  Laetitia.  Who?  Keggo?  Yes,  it  was  Keggo; 
and  immediately  with  the  name's  recovery  was  recovered 
the  phrase's  context.  This  very  matter!  "Rosalie,  a 
woman  can't  —  come  back." 

Absurd !  But,  yes,  how  she  remembered  it  now ! 
**  Very  dangerous  being  a  woman,"  Keggo  had  said. 
"  Men  go  into  dangers  but  they  come  out  of  them  and 
go  home  to  tea.  That's  what  it  is  with  men,  Rosalie. 
They  can  always  get  out.  They  can  always  come  back. 
They  never  belong  to  a  thing,  heart  and  soul,  body  and 
mind.  Rosalie,  women  do.  That's  why  it  is  so  very, 
very  dangerous  being  a  woman.  Women  can't  come  back. 
They  take  to  a  thing,  anything,  and  go  deep  enough,  and 
they're  its;  they  never,  never  will  get  away  from  it;  they 
never,  never  will  be  able  to  come  back  out  of  it.  Rosalie, 
I  tell  you  this,  when  a  woman  gives  herself,  forgets 
moderation  and  gives  herself  to  anything,  she  is  its  cap- 
tive for  ever.  She  may  think  she  can  come  back  but  she 
can't  come  back.  For  a  woman  there  is  no  comeback. 
They  don't  issue  return  tickets  to  women.  For  women 
there  is  only  departure;  there  is  no  return." 

Poor  Keggo! 

Poor  Keggo  had  of  course  founded  her  theory  upon 
her  own  bitter  plight.  How  she  had  given  her  case  away 
when  she  had  said,  "  Look  at  me !  "  It  applied  to  her, 
of  course,  or  to  any  woman  —  or  man  for  that  matter  — 


254  THIS  FREEDOM 

who  drank  or  drugged.  It  applied  not  in  the  least  to 
such  a  case  as  this  of  her  own.  Keggo  had  tried  to 
apply  it.  She  had  said,  "  You  have  a  theory  of  life. 
You  are  bent  upon  a  career  in  life.  Suppose  you  ever 
wanted  to  come  back?  " 

She  had  laughed  and  declared  she  never  would  want 
to  come  back.  Well,  look  how  absurd  all  poor  Keggo's 
idea  was  now  being  proved !  It  had  suddenly  occurred  to 
her  that  it  might  at  some  future  time  be  required  of  her 
to  come  back;  and  all  she  had  to  do  was  just  —  to  come 
back.  No  difficulty  about  it  whatsoever!  No  struggle! 
Indeed,  and  fondly  she  touched  that  by  her  side  which 
had  called  up  these  thoughts,  she  would  come  back  joy- 
ously. Of  course  she  would!  Field  and  Company,  am- 
bition, that  for  it  if  and  when  her  darlings  called  her  !  Yes, 
wrong  every  way,  that  poor  Keggo.  Dangerous  being  a 
woman,  she  had  said,  and  it  was  not  dangerous.  It  could 
be,  and  she  had  proved  it,  a  state  that  could  be  lived  full 
in  every  aspect,  —  full  in  freedom,  full  in  endeavour, 
full  in  love,  full  in  motherhood.  Dangerous !  A  week 
ago,  inimical  to  this  advent,  injurious;  now,  in  this  ad- 
vent's presence,  and  with  this  resolution  gladly  dedicated 
to  it,  only  and  wholly  glorious. 

This  one!  Come  after  confliction,  come  in  contrition, 
come  to  call  her  back  when  she  should  need  to  be  called, 
the  little  tiny  one,  the  belovedest  one,  the  Benjamin  one 
—  her  Benji ! 


CHAPTER  VII 

Those  children  were  brought  up  with  every  modern 
advantage.  Wisdom  is  judged  by  the  age  in  which  it 
flourishes,  and  everything  that  the  day  accounts  wise  for 
children  those  children  had.  Their  father  was  of  con- 
siderable and  always  increasing  means;  their  mother  was 
of  great  and  untrammelled  intelligence :  anything  that 
money  could  provide  for  children,  and  that  intelligent 
principles  of  upbringing  said  ought  to  be  provided  for 
children,  those  children  enjoyed.  When  they  were  out 
of  the  care  of  Muffet,  who  was  everything  that  a  nurse 
ought  to  be,  they  passed  into  the  care  of  a  resident  gov- 
erness. Miss  Prescott,  who  was  a  children's  governess, 
not  for  the  old  and  fatuous  reason  that  she  "  loved  chil- 
dren," but  for  the  new  and  intelligent  reason  that  she 
was  attracted  by  the  child-mind  as  a  study  and  was  certi- 
ficated and  diplomaed  in  the  study  of  children  as  an 
exact  science,  —  Child  Welfare  as  she  called  it.  Miss 
Prescott  had  complete  charge  of  the  children  while  they 
were  tiny  and  while  they  were  growing  up  to  eleven  and 
nine  and  Benji  to  seven  years  old.  She  taught  them  their 
lessons  (on  her  own,  the  new,  principles)  and  on  the  same 
principles  their  habits  and  the  formation  of  their  char- 
acters. It  might  roundly  be  said  that  everything  trouble- 
some in  regard  to  the  children  w^as  left  to  Miss  Prescott, 
and,  left  to  her,  came  never  between  the  children  and 
their  mother.  Their  mother  only  enjoyed  her  children, 
presented  to  her  fresh,  clean  and  happy  for  the  purpose 
of  her  enjoyment;  and  the  children  only  enjoyed  their 


256  THIS  FREEDOM 

mother,  visiting  them  smiUng,  devoted,  unworried,   for 
the  purpose  of  their  happiness. 

It  was  a  perfect,  and  a  mutually  beneficial  arrangement. 
As  there  had  been,  before  the  children  came,  two  inde- 
pendent lives  behind  the  gamboge  door,  so,  with  the  oc- 
cupation of  the  nurseries,  there  were,  as  it  might  be, 
three  independent  households,  mingling,  at  selected  times, 
only  for  purposes  of  happiness. 

It  was  perfect.  In  the  summer  a  house  was  taken  at 
Cromer  by  the  sea  and  there,  all  through  the  fine  weather, 
Miss  Prescott  was  installed  with  her  charges.  Their 
mother  had  three  weeks  from  Field's  in  the  summer  and 
she  and  their  father  would  spend  the  whole  of  it,  and 
often  week-ends,  at  Cromer  idling  and  playing  with 
their  darlings.  That  was  jolly.  The  children  associ- 
ated nothing  whatever  but  happiness  with  their  parents. 

In  the  other  months  of  the  year  their  mother  was  im- 
mensely occupied  with  her  work  at  Field's,  developing 
beyond  expectation ;  and  their  father  early  and  late  with 
his  work  in  the  Temple,  his  esteem  by  solicitors  and  by 
litigants  almost  beyond  his  time  to  satisfy.  Their  father 
was  much  paragraphed  in  the  social  journals,  and  their 
mother  also.  The  paragraphs  said  their  father  was  mak- 
ing a  "  princely  fortune  "  at  the  Bar  and  never  told  of 
him  without  telling  also  of  his  wife.  They  described 
her  as  "  of  Field's  Bank  "  and  always  drove  the  word 
"  unique  "  hand  in  hand  with  every  mention  of  her  parts. 
"  Unique  personality  "  ;  "  unique  position  "  ;  "  unique 
among  professional  women  " ;  "  unique,"  said  one,  "  in 
combining  notable  beauty  and  rare  business  acumen; 
an  office  w^hich  she  attends  daily  and  a  charming  home : 
a  profession,  three  beautiful  children,  and  a  brilliant  hus- 
band." 

The  syntax  is  weak,  but  the  truth  is  in  it  and  those 
cliildren  were  to  be  envied  in  their  mother. 


THIS  FREEDOM  257 

Miss  Prescott,  when  she  came,  did  not  displace  the 
Muffet.  She  was  installed  additional  to  the  Muffet;  and 
as  touching  the  modern  principles  relating  to  children  she 
very  soon  told  Muffet  a  thing  or  two  not  previously 
dreamt  of  in  the  Muffet  philosophy  but  having,  thence- 
forward, occasional  place  in  the  Muft'et  nightmares. 

The  Muffet,  however,  was  of  lymphatic  character,  with, 
as  her  most  constant  desire,  the  desire  not  to  be 
"  plagued."  She  was  one  of  those  people  who  are  for 
ever  declaring  that  they  never  eat  anything,  who  at  meals, 
indeed,  appear  to  eat  very  little,  but  who  between  meals, 
are  eating  all  day  long.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  the  Muf- 
fet jaws,  like  the  jaws  of  a  ruminant,  were  steadily 
munching,  munching.  When  Benji  was  three  Muffet 
was  getting  distinctly  fat.  On  a  corner  of  the  night 
nursery  mantelpiece  she  had  a  photographic  group  of  her 
parents  and  of  an  uncle  and  aunt  who  lived  with  her 
parents.  These  four  were  very  fat  and  one  evening  the 
children's  father  made  a  remark  about  this  portrait  that 
made  their  mother  laugh  delightedly. 

Benji  was  in  his  cot.  Huggo  had  just  come  from  his 
bath  and  was  having  his  toes  wiped  by  his  mother  be- 
cause he  declared  Muffet  had  not  dried  them  properly. 
He  said  Muffet  groaned  when  she  stooped. 

His  mother  said,  "  You  know,  Harry,  Muffet  is  get- 
ting fat.    Have  you  noticed  it?  " 

Their  father  was  bent  almost  double  swinging  Doda 
between  his  legs,  the  stomach  of  Doda  reposing  on  the 
palms  of  his  joined  hands  and  Doda  squealing  ecstatically. 

Their  father  said,  "  I  have.  Go  and  look  at  that  photo- 
graph, Rosalie,  and  you'll  see  why.  Look  at  what  her 
people  are.  Muffet's  broadening  down  from  precedent 
to  precedent." 

It  made  their  mother  laugh.  The  children  didn't  know 
why  it  made  her  laugh,  but  they  laughed  with  her.     They 


258  THIS  FREEDOM 

always  did,  or  with  their  father  when  he  laughed.  And 
there  was  always  lots  of  jolly  laughter  when  their  father 
and  mother  came  up  to  the  nurseries. 

Those  children,  as  they  passed  through  early  childhood, 
never  saw  their  parents  but  happy  and  good-spirited. 
They  never  saw  them  worried  nor  ever  saw  them  sad. 
That  was,  as  one  might  say,  Rosalie's  chief  offering  to 
her  darlings.  It  was  splendid  to  Rosalie  that  her  way 
of  life,  far  from  causing  her  (as  prejudice  would  have 
prophesied)  to  neglect  her  children,  enabled  her  to  con- 
sider them  in  their  relations  with  herself  as,  by  their 
mothers,  children  in  her  childhood  never  were  considered. 
That  they  should  associate  nothing  —  nothing  at  all  — 
but  happiness  with  her  was  the  basis  of  it.  Children,  she 
held,  ought  not  to  see  their  parents  bad-tempered  or  dis- 
tressed or  in  any  way  out  of  sorts  or  out  of  control.  For 
a  child  to  do  so  has  in  two  ways  a  bad  effect  on  the  child 
mind.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  harmful  for  children  to 
come  in  contact  with  the  unpleasant  things  of  life;  in 
the  second,  parents  should  always  be  to  their  children 
models  of  conduct  and  of  disposition.  They  should  in 
themselves  present  ideals  to  their  children.  A  man  should 
be  a  hero  to  his  son;  a  woman  an  ideal  to  her  daughter. 
Why  is  no  man  a  hero  to  his  valet?  It  is  simply  because 
his  valet  sees  him,  as  do  not  those  whose  esteem  he  de- 
sires to  win.  in  his  off  moments.  Children  should  never 
see  their  parents  in  their  off  moments. 

This  principle  was  not  Rosalie's  alone.  It  is  the  mod- 
ern principle.  The  point,  to  Rosalie,  was  that,  by  her 
way  of  life,  she  was  able  to  apply  it.  Children  were  too 
much  w'ith  their  parents.  That  was  the  fault :  in  her 
childhood  the  universal  fault,  even  now  the  fault  among 
the  unenlightened.  Parents,  being  human,  must  have  off 
moments;  are  not  off  moments,  indeed,  in  the  total  of 
the  day,  of  greater  sum  than  moments  of  circumspection? 


THIS  FREEDOM  259 

It  follows  that  if  children  are  always  with  their  parents, 
the  more  unlovely  side  cannot  fail  to  J3e  perceived,  and, 
arising  out  of  it,  must  follow  injury  by  example,  harm 
by  environment,  smirching  of  idealism,  loss  of  respect. 
In  those  homes  where  the  mother  (in  Rosalie's  phrase) 
is  the  children's  slave,  why  has  the  father  the  children's 
greater  respect?  Why  is  it  fine  to  do  what  father  does? 
Why  jolly  and  exciting  to  be  with  father?  It  is  only 
because  the  father  commonly  is  away  all  day,  only  seen 
by  them  when,  shedding  other  affairs,  he  comes  to  see 
them  specially. 

Her  life  —  oddly  how  well  for  everything  and  every 
one  her  attitude  to  life  fell  out!  —  obtained  for  her  and 
for  them  the  same  wise  and  happy  restriction  from  too 
free  familiarity.  She  was  able  to  come  to  her  children 
only  w^ien  all  her  undivided  attention  and  whole  hearted 
love  could  be  given  to  them.  They  never  saw  her  vexed, 
they  never  saw  her  angry,  they  never  saw  her  sad.  It 
was  not  a  commonplace  to  them  to  see  their  mother.  It 
was  an  event.  A  morning  event  and  an  evening  event  — 
and  unfailingly  a  completely  happy  event.  She  looked 
back  upon  her  own  childhood  with  her  own  mother  and 
reflected,  fondly  but  clearly,  affectionately  but  not  blinded 
by  affection,  how  very  different  was  that.  She  was  al- 
ways with  her  mother.  Her  mother  was  often  sad,  often 
worried,  often,  in  distraction  of  her  worries,  irritable 
in  speech.  Often  sad!  Why,  she  could  remember  time 
and  again  when  her  dear  mother,  hunted  by  her  cares, 
was  broken  down  and  crying.  She  would  go  to  her 
mother  then  and  cry  to  see  her  crying,  and  her  mother 
would  put  her  arms  around  her  and  hug  her  to  her  breast 
and  declare  she  was  her  "  litde  comfort."  Was  it  good 
for  a  child  to  suffer  scenes  like  that?  She  used  to  be 
with  her  mother  all  day  long,  from  early  morning  till 
last  thing  at  night.     With  what  result?     That  she  saw 


260  THIS  FREEDOM 

and  suffered  with  her,  or  suffered  of  her,  all  that  her 
mother  suffered;  that  she  was  sometimes  desolated  to 
feeling  that  her  heart  was  broken  for  her  mother.  Could 
that  be  good  for  a  child?  Her  Huggo,  her  Doda  and  her 
Benji  never  saw  her  anything  but  radiant;  and  because 
that  was  so  (as  she  told  herself)  she  never  saw  them 
cry,  either  on  her  account  or  on  their  own. 

Therein  —  grief  in  her  presence  on  their  own  account 
—  another  point  arose.  With  as  her  ideal  that  only 
happiness  should  be  associated  with  her,  she  found  her 
way  of  life  beneficial  to  the  preservation  of  that  ideal 
in  that  it  prevented  her  from  being  the  vessel  that  should 
convey  the  restrictions,  the  reproofs  and  the  instruction 
that  are  troublesome  to  small  minds.  All  that  was  left 
to  Miss  Prescott.  She  remembered  lessons  with  her 
mother;  she  remembered  the  irksome  learning  of  a  hun- 
dred "  don'ts  "  from  her  mother;  and  though  they  were 
tender  and  pathetic  memories  she  remembered  also  the 
reverse  of  the  picture,  —  being  glad  to  escape  from  her 
mother,  resentful  against  her  mother  when  stood  in  the 
corner  by  her  mother,  w^ien  stopped  doing  this  that  and 
the  other  by  her  mother,  w^hen  made  to  learn  terribly 
hard  lessons  by  her  mother  and  to  go  on  learning  them 
till  she  had  learnt  them.  Only  childish  resentment,  of 
course,  swept  up  and  forgotten  as  by  the  sun  emerging 
out  of  clouds  the  shadow  from  a  landscape.  But  why 
should  children  ever  have  the  tiniest  frown  against  their 
mother?  There  must  be  frowns,  there  must  be  tears. 
Let  others  bear  the  passing  grudge  of  those.  Let  Miss 
Prescott. 

Miss  Prescott  was  willing  and  able  to  bear  anything  like 
that.  She  delighted  in  such.  She  told  Rosalie,  when 
Rosalie  engaged  her,  and  after  she  had  seen  the  children, 
that  her  only  hesitation  in  accepting  the  post  was  that 
the  children  were  too  normal.     "  By  normal,"  said  Miss 


THIS  FREEDOM  261 

Prescott,  speaking,  as  she  always  spoke,  as  if  she  were 
a  passage  out  of  a  book  given  utterance,  "  By  normal, 
Mrs.  Occleve,  I  do  not,  of  course,  mean  commonplace. 
Any  one  can  see  how  attractive  they  are,  how  gifted; 
any  one  can  know  how  distinguished,  wath,  if  I  may  say 
so,  such  talented  parents,  their  inherited  qualities  must 
be.  No,  when  I  say  normal,  I  mean  showing  no  disquiet- 
ing signs,  constitutionally  tractable,  not  refractory.  In 
that  sense  of  normality  it  is  much  more  the  abnormal 
child  to  whom  I  would  have  liked  to  devote  myself.  I 
have  specialised  in  children.  The  harder  the  case  the 
more  I  should  be  interested  in  it.  That's  what  I  mean. 
But  I  never  could  have  hoped  to  find  a  household  where, 
though  there  can  be  no  difficulties,  I  should  have  such 
opportunities  of  helping  children  to  be  perfect  men  and 
w^omen;  nor  a  mother  to  whose  children  I  would  more 
gladly,  proudly,  devote  myself ;  nor  a  place  with  which 
I  should  feel  myself  so  entirely  in  sympathy.  If  you 
feel,  on  reflection,  that  I  should  suit  you,  it  will  be,  I 
am  sure  —  why  should  I  not  say  so  —  an  auspicious  day 
for  those  little  ones." 

How  happy  was  Rosalie  thus  by  provision  to  destiny 
her  darlings ! 

Miss  Prescott  was  thirty  when  engaged  by  Rosalie. 
She  had  a  way  of  looking  at  people  w4iich,  if  described, 
can  best  describe  her  appearance.  She  w^as  once  in  an 
omnibus  in  London  and  the  conductor,  standing  against 
her,  and  about  to  serve  a  ticket  to  a  passenger  seated 
next  her,  had  some  trouble  with  his  bell-punch.  It  would 
not  work  and  he  fumbled  with  it,  angry.  Everybody  in 
the  bus  watched  him.  It  is  not  nice  to  be  watched  when 
baffled  and  heated  in  bafflement  but  the  only  gaze  to  which 
attention  was  given  by  the  conductor  was  the  gaze  of 
Miss  Prescott.  He  glanced  constantly  from  the  obdurate 
machine  to  the  face  of  Miss  Prescott.     Suddenly  he  said : 


262  THIS  FREEDOM 

"  'Ere,  suppose  you  do  it,  then,"  and  pushed  the  bell- 
punch  at  her.  Miss  Prescott  took  it,  did  it,  astound- 
ingly  and  instantaneously,  and  handed  it  back  with  no 
word.    The  conductor  seemed  more  angry  than  before. 

It  was  like  that  that  Miss  Prescott  looked  at  people. 

There  is  a  right  way  of  doing  everything.  Miss  Pres- 
cott had  an  uncanny  instinct  for  finding  it ;  and,  applying 
this  faculty  to  her  training  of  the  child-mind,  she  pre- 
sented herself  as  a  notable  exponent  of  the  system  in 
which,  as  has  been  said,  she  was  certificated  and  diplomaed. 
She  taught  children  how  to  play  in  the  right  way,  how  to 
learn  in  the  right  way,  and  above  all  how,  in  every  way 
and  at  every  turn,  to  reason.  By  the  old,  ignorant  plan 
children  were  instructed,  speaking  broadly,  by  love  or  by 
fear.  It  was  by  pure  reason  that  Miss  Prescott  instructed 
them.  The  child  was  treated  as  an  earnest  physician 
treats  a  case.  Ill  temper  or  wrong  behaviour  in  a  child 
was  neither  vexing  nor  sad.  It  was  profoundly  interest- 
ing. There  was  a  right  and  scientific  way  to  treat  it  and 
that  right  and  scientific  way  was  thought  out  and  admin- 
istered.    The  child  was  "  a  case." 

It  was  taught  nothing  but  truths  and  facts.  Its  mind 
was  not  permitted  to  be  befogged  with  fairy  stories,  with 
superstitions,  with  Father  Christmases  and  the  like,  nor 
yet  with  religious  half-truths  and  misty  fables.  These 
entailed  not  only  befogging  at  the  time,  but  disillusion- 
ment thereafter.  Disillusionment  was  wicked  for  a  child. 
It  further  was  taught  nothing  at  all  (in  the  matter  of 
lessons)  at  the  grotesquely  early  age  at  which  children 
used  to  be  taught.     It  was  taught  first  to  reason. 

In  general  the  whole  system  lay  in  developing  the 
child's  reasoning  powers  and  then,  at  every  turn  and 
particularly  at  every  manifestation  of  indiscipline,  ap- 
pealing to  its  reason.  "  I  am  here  to  be  happy  "  —  that 
was  the  first,  and  surely  the  kindest  and  easiest,  knowl- 


THIS  FREEDOM  263 

edge  to  fix  in  the  child.  From  that  foundation  every- 
thing was  worked.  It  never  was  necessary  to  punish  a 
child.  It  only  w^as  necessary  to  reason  with  it.  In  the 
old  phraseology  a  child  meet  to  be  punished  was  a  naughty 
child.  In  the  terminology  of  Miss  Prescott  such  a  child 
was  a  sick  child  or  an  unreasoning  child :  a  case  present- 
ing an  adverse  symptom.  But  take  the  older  term,  —  a 
naughty  child.  A  naughty  child  was  an  unhappy  child. 
The  treatment  went  like  this,  "  I  am  here  to  be  happy. 
I  am  not  happy.  Why  am  I  not  happy?  Because  I  have 
done  so  and  so  and  so  and  so.  ..." 

Kind,  wise,  simple,  effective,  easy.  Rosalie  in  her 
childish  misdemeanours  would  have  been  prevailed  upon 
by  the  unhappiness  her  conduct  caused  her  mother.  All 
wrong!  A  faulty  process  of  reasoning;  indeed  not  a 
process  of  reasoning  at  all :  a  crude  appeal  to  the  emotions. 
Those  three  children  who  on  the  one  part  never  saw  their 
mother  sad  and  were  constrained  to  comfort  her,  on  the 
other  never  were  bribed  to  good  behaviour  by  the  thought 
of  grieving  her.  They  only  associated  happiness  with 
her  and  they  enjoyed  happiness  simply  by  reasoning  away 
unhappiness. 

Kind,  wise,  sim.ple,  effective,  easy. 

Happy  Huggo,  happy  Doda,  happy  Benji,  happy  Rosa- 
lie! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

It  has  been  said  of  Time,  earlier  in  these  pages,  the 
cloak-and-dagger  sort  he  is,  that  stalks  and  pounces.  One 
seeks  only  to  record  him  when  he  thus  assails,  and  there 
is  this  result ;  that  it  is  necessary  to  pare  away  so  much. 
In  instance,  there's  to  be  inserted  now  a  note  on  Rosalie's 
advance  in  her  career.  It's  cut  to  nothing.  This  is  be- 
cause all  that  career  ultimately  was  known  to  her  never 
to  have  really  mattered.  And  so  with  other  things. 
That  girl,  all  through,  pressing  so  strong  ahead,  rises 
to  the  eye  not  cumbered  with  other  importance  than  her 
own.  There  might  be  asked  for  (by  a  reader)  presenta- 
tion of  Harry's  parents;  of  what  was  doing  all  this  time 
to  her  own  parents  in  the  rectory,  to  Harold,  Robert, 
Flora,  Hilda;  of  friends  that  Rosalie  and  Harry  had. 
That  girl's  passage  is  not  traced  in  such.  Whose  is? 
The  chart  where  such  are  marked  is  just  a  common  public 
print,  stamped  for  the  public  eye.  They're  not  set  down 
upon  that  secret  chart  all  carry  in  the  cabin  of  their 
soul,  and  there,  in  that  so  hidden  and  inviolable  state- 
room, poring  over  it  by  the  uncertain  swinging  lamp 
of  conscience,  prick  out  their  way. 

Her  installation  in  the  bank  had  been  a  notable  success. 
She  dealt  with  all  the  insurance  advice  and  with  income- 
tax  advice  and  business ;  and  it  was  remarkable  to  her, 
at  first,  how  many  of  Field's  clients  were  as  children  in 
the  mysteries  of  income  tax,  and  as  children  alike  in  their 
ignorance  of  the  possibilities  of  life  insurance  and  in  their 
pleasure  at  the  discoveries  she  set  before  them.  But 
further  than  this  (and  more  important,  said  Mr.  Sturgiss 


THIS  FREEDOM  265 

and  Mr.  Field)  was  the  quick  response  of  the  clients  to 
the  various  domestic  advice  that  it  was  Rosalie's  business 
to  give.  Husbands  and  wives  from  the  East,  or  returned 
thither  from  London  and  writing  from  the  East,  con- 
sulted her  on  innumerable  matters.  When,  in  instance,  an 
army  officer  wrote  to  her  from  India,  very  diffidently 
wondering  if  she  could  help  him  in  the  matter  of  some 
Christmas  presents  for  his  wife  and  children  at  home, 
Mr.  Sturgiss  was  uncommonly  pleased. 

"  I  knew  it!  "  said  Mr.  Sturgiss.  "  That's  the  kind  of 
thing.  You  watch  how  side  lines  like  that  will  develop. 
That's  what  these  people  want  —  some  one  at  home  they 
can  rely  on.  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Occleve,  you,  that  is  to 
say  your  department  of  Field's,  is  what  the  Anglo-Eastern 
has  been  wanting  ever  since  Clive  and  Warren  Hastings 
went  out  —  a  link  with  home.    You  see." 

She  did  see.  Mr.  Field  saw.  The  clients  saw.  The 
friends  of  the  clients  saw  —  and  became  clients. 

All  of  her  position  reposed,  and  was  developed  by  her, 
on  the  cruel  disabilities  of  those  who  earn  their  bread  in 
the  East.  For  all  such,  married,  comes,  in  time,  the  sad 
and  the  costly  business  of  the  divided  home,  —  the  two 
establishments,  the  sundering  of  children  and  parents,  of 
husband  and  wife.  By  the  age  of  seven  at  latest  the 
children  have  to  be  sent  home  for  health  and  education. 
Then  the  sundering,  the  losing  of  touch,  the  compul- 
sion upon  the  man,  that  those  at  home  may  be  promptly 
supported,  to  deny  himself  year  after  year  the  longed- 
for  visit  home.  The  losing  of  touch.  .  .  .  Invaluable 
to  them  to  have  in  Field's,  in  "  that  Mrs.  Occleve  "  a 
link,  known  personally  or  by  reputation,  that  was  useable 
as  relations  (capricious,  "  touchy,"  interfering)  often 
are  not  useable;  and  dependable  as  relations,  unpractical, 
certainly  are  not  always  dependable.  Invaluable  to  the 
clients;  declared  by  Mr.  Field  and  by  Mr.  Sturgiss  to  be 


266  THIS  FREEDOM 

invaluable  to  the  bank ;  absorbing  and  splendid  to  Rosalie. 
"  And  still,"  Mr.  Sturgiss  was  always  saying,  "  still 
capable  of  much  bigger  development." 

He  sketched  one  day  a  development  that  would  be  a 
stride  indeed.  It  began  to  be  discussed  by  the  three.  It 
connoted  so  absolute  a  recognition  of  Rosalie's  worth 
that  she  decided  —  lest  it  should  fall  through  —  she 
would  not  mention  it  to  Harry  till  either  it  was  fallen 
through  or  was  afoot.     Then! 

It  made  her  busy.  She  told  Harry  once,  when  they'd 
been  talking  of  how  much  at  office  she  was  kept,  of  her 
work,  and  of  the  place  she  was  making  for  herself,  "  Well, 
it's  not  bad,  Harry,"  she  told  him.  "  It's  not  bad.  I'll 
admit  that.  What  pleases  me  is  that  it's  only  a  begin- 
ning; well  as  it's  going,  and  long  as  I've  now  been  at  it, 
only  a  beginning.  I  can't,  as  I've  often  said  to  you,  be 
doing  all  this  without  getting  a  long  insight  into  the 
actual  banking  business.  Oh,  don't  you  remember 
my  telling  you  about  that  appalling  evening  when  I  told 
poor  Uncle  Pyke  that  I  wanted  to  be  a  banker?  How 
outraged  he  was!  Poor  person,  how  rightly  outraged! 
The  ridiculous  notion  that  I  ever  could  be  a  banker!  A 
grotesque  dream!"  She  gave  a  small  laugh  as  if  ten- 
derly smiling  at  image  before  her  of  that  innocent,  eager 
girl  at  the  Pyke  Pounce  table.  She  said  softly,  "  A 
grotesque  dream.  Now,  with  patent  limitations  —  not 
a  dream." 

It  was  like  that  that  Time  (disguised  as  triumph)  kept 
out  of  the  way;  and  similarly  disguised,  showed  no  sign 
either  on  the  children's  side.  All  splendid  there !  Grow- 
ing up !    Huggo  set  to  school ! 

Huggo  learnt  with  Miss  Prescott  till  he  was  nine,  then 
attended  daily  a  first-rate  school  for  little  boys  in  Ken- 
sington, at  eleven  started  as  a  boarder  at  a  preparatory 


THIS  FREEDOM  267 

school  for  Tidborough.  Next  he  was  to  go  to  the  great 
pubhc  school  itself,  afterwards  to  Oxford  and  the  Bar. 
All's  well!  Time  had  nothing  at  all  to  say  during  the 
first  two  stages  of  the  programme.  It  was  in  Huggo's 
first  holidays  from  the  preparatory  school  that  Time 
whipped  out  his  blade  and  pounced. 

On  a  day  that  was  a  week  before  the  end  of  that  holi- 
days the  great  new  scheme  for  Rosalie  at  Field's  rose 
to  ics  feet  and  walked.  It  was  a  special  mission  on 
behalf  of  the  bank. 

It  necessitated.  .    .    . 

She  came  once  or  twice  to  a  bit  of  a  stop  like  that  while 
waiting  their  evening  talk  together  in  which  she  should 
tell  Harry.  It  necessitated  a  departure  from  the  estab- 
lished order  of  things;  but  what  of  that?  Was  not  the 
way  bill  of  her  life  all  departures  from  things  established, 
and  all  successful,  and  were  not  all  contingencies  of  this 
particular  departure  fully  insured  against?  She  very 
easily  cantered  on,  on  this  rein.  That  bit  of  a  stop  was 
scarcely  a  check  in  the  progression  of  her  thoughts. 

Seated  with  Harry  in  Harry's  room  that  night  she  was 
about  to  tell  him  her  great  news  when,  "  I'd  an  unusual 
offer  made  to  me  today,"  said  Harry. 

Almost  the  very  words  herself  had  been  about  to  use! 

"  Why  so  had  I  to  me !  "  she  cried. 

They  both  laughed.     "  Tell  on,"  said  Harry. 

"  No,  you.    Yours  first." 

"Toss  you,"  cried  Harry;  and  spun  a  coin  and  lost 
and  went  ahead:  "Well,  mine  doesn't  exactly  shake  the 
foundations  of  the  world  with  excitement  because  I  re- 
fused it.  It  was  to  go  out  to  defend  in  a  big  murder 
caF.e  in  Singapore !  " 

She  exclaimed,  "In  Singapore!" 

"  Yes,  Singapore.    Why  do  you  say  it  like  that?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 


268  THIS  FREEDOM 

The  prisoner,  Harry  went  on,  was  a  wealthy  trader, 
immensely  wealthy,  and  immensely  detested,  it  appeared, 
by  the  European  settlement ;  had  native  blood  in  his  veins ; 
was  charged  with  poisoning  an  Englishman  with  whose 
wife  he  was  supposed  to  have  been  carrying  on  an  amour. 
"  A  wretched,  unsavoury  business,"  said  Harry,  and  went 
on  to  say  that,  though  the  fee  offered  was  extraordinarily 
handsome,  he  had  declined  the  proposal.  It  was  doubtful 
he  would  actually  make  more  money  over  it  than  in  his 
normal  round  at  home,  more  than  that  it  went  against 
the  grain  to  be  defending  a  man  of  native  origins  who 
had  pretty  obviously  seduced  a  white  woman  if  not  mur- 
dered her  husband.  "  No,  no  ticket  to  Singapore  for 
me,  thanks,"  said  Harry. 

Rosalie  turned  to  him  with  a  sudden,  direct  interest. 
"  Harry,  suppose  you  had  accepted,  how  long  would  you 
have  been  away?  " 

"  Not  less  than  six  months  in  all.  Certainly  not  less. 
That's  another  point  against  —  " 

"  Yes,  against  the  idea,  because  in  any  case  you  don't 
want  to  go.  But  suppose  the  circumstances  had  been 
different;  suppose  it  was  a  case  that  for  various  reasons 
very  much  attracted  you;  would  you  have  gone?  " 

Harry  said  indifferently,  "  Oh,  no  doubt,  no  doubt." 

"  Although  it  would  have  taken  you  from  home  six 
months  —  or  more?     You'd  not  have  minded  that?" 

He  laughed  delightedly.  "  Ah,  ha !  I  was  beginning 
to  wonder  what  you  were  driving  at.  You're  a  regular 
lawyer,  Rosalie;  you  led  me  on  and  then  caught  me  out 
properly." 

His  amusement  was  not  reflected  by  her.  She  said 
with  a  certain  insistence,  "  But  you  wouldn't  have 
minded?  " 

He  laughed  again.  "  The  judge  ruled  that  the  question 
was  admissible  and  must  be  answered.     Well,  minded  — 


THIS  FREEDOM  269 

I'd  have  minded,  of  course,  very  much  in  a  way.  I'm 
a  home  bird.  I'd  have  hated  being  away  the  best  part  of 
a  year.  But  there  you  are.  If  the  call  was  strong 
enough,  there  you  are;  it  would  have  been  business." 

She  indrew  a  long  breath.  "  That's  it.  It  would  have 
been  business." 

There  was  then  a  pause. 

Harry,  who  had  been  talking  lightly,  then  said  slowly, 
"Rosalie,  is  there  something  behind  this?" 

She  turned  towards  him  with  a  very  nice  smile. 
"  Harry,  I've  been  doing  a  very  shocking  thing.  I've 
been  making  you  commit  yourself." 

"  Commit  myself?  " 

She  nodded.  "  Been  taking  down  your  statement  with- 
out warning  you  that  it  may  be  used  in  evidence  against 
you." 

He  said  gravely,  "  Somehow  I  don't  like  this." 

She  told  him,  "Ah,  stupid  me!  I'm  making  a  small 
thing  seem  big.  Listen,  Harry.  It  was  curious  to  me 
this  about  you  and  Singapore  —  " 

"Yes,  I  noticed  that.     Why?" 

"Because  there's  an  idea  of  my  going  out  to  Singa- 
pore." 

He  was  astounded.  She  might  have  said  to  Mars. 
"  You?    To  Singapore?  " 

"  To  the  East  generally.  To  Bombay,  to  Rangoon, 
to  Singapore.    For  about  a  year." 

He  was  aU  aback.  "For  about  a  year?  Rosalie,  I 
can't  —  Why  on  earth  —  ?  " 

She  did  not  like  this.  The  great  scheme !  Her  special 
mission!  It  necessitated.  .  .  .  Here  was  the  necessity 
at  which  she  had  checked  but  confidently  ridden  on,  and 
Harry  was  pulled  right  up  by  it.  His  astonishment  was 
not  comfortable  to  her.     Was  there  to  be  a  check  then? 


270  THIS  FREEDOM 

He  said  again,  "  You?     A  year?     But,  Rosalie,  what  on 
earth  —  " 

She  pronounced  a  single  word,  his  own  word: 

"  Business." 

He  was  standing  before  her  on  the  hearthrug.  He 
made  a  turn  and  at  once  turned  back.  "  Are  you  thinking 
of  this  seriously?  " 

"  Most  seriously." 

"Of  going?" 

"  Of  going.     It's  business." 

"  For  a  year?  " 

"  Harry,  yes." 

He  began  to  fill  his  pipe  with  very  slow  movements 
of  his  fingers,  his  eyes  bent  down  upon  her.  "  And  you 
called  this  —  just  now  —  a  small  thing?  " 

She  said  with  a  sudden  eagerness,  "  Harry,  it's  a  very 
big  thing  for  me,  for  Field's.  I  meant  a  small  thing  in 
the  sense  not  to  be  made  a  fuss  about." 

He  made  very  slowly  a  negative  movement  with  his 
head.     "  I  don't  see  it  like  that." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  Harry." 

She  told  him  how  the  great  possibilities  of  the  depart- 
ment she  had  established  in  the  bank  rested  on  the  per- 
sonal touch  established  between  herself  and  the  clients. 
The  scheme  was  that  those  possibilities  should  be  devel- 
oped to  their  fullest  extent.  While  she  was  in  London 
that  personal  touch  could  be  established  with  clients  by 
dozens.  If  she  visited  the  branches  in  the  East,  at 
Bombay,  at  Rangoon,  at  Singapore,  it  was  by  hundreds 
that  the  touch  could  be  established.  That  was  it.  Field's 
customers  would  talk  to  her,  and  when  she  was  returned 
they  would  talk  of  her,  and  would  tell  others  of  her,  as 
®ne  met,  not  during  the  jolly  freedom  of  leave  when  the 
impulse  was  to  feel  that,  after  all,  nothing  mattered  much, 
but  met  out  there  when  they  were  in  the  yoke  and  the 


THIS  FREEDOM  271 

harness  of  the  thing,  —  met  as  one  fresh  out  from  home 
in  their  particular  interests  and  shortly,  charged  with 
their  special  interests,  returning  home.  That  was  it! 
A  novel  mission,  a  valuable  mission,  her  mission.  About 
a  year.  To  start  in  about  six  weeks.  '*  There,  Harry, 
that's  the  plan." 

"And  you  are  going?" 

"  I  have  agreed  to  go." 

He  said  slowly,  "  It  astonishes  me." 

There  was  then  a  pause. 

She  spoke.  "  I  tliink  I  do  not  like  your  astonishment, 
Harry." 

"  It  is  justified." 

**  No,  no;  not  justified.  When  you  told  me  of  a  possi- 
bility of  Singapore  for  you  I  was  not  astonished.  I  made 
no  difficulty." 

"  Different,"  he  said.     "  Different." 

"Not  different,  Harry.  The  same.  How  different? 
If  you  could  go,  I  can  go.  The  same.  Aren't  things  with 
us  always  the  same?  " 

He  shook  his  head.    "  Not  this.    If  I  had  to  go  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  It's  the  point.  If  you  had  to  go  you'd 
have  to  go.     Well,  I  have  to  go." 

"  Rosalie,  if  I  had  to  go  I  could  go.    A  man  can." 

She  cried,  "  But,  Harry,  that  —  This  isn't  us  talk- 
ing at  all.  You  mean  a  man  can  leave  his  home  because 
his  home  can  go  on  without  him.  But  our  home  —  it's 
just  the  same  for  me  in  our  home.  We've  made  it  like 
that.  Ic  runs  itself.  The  kitchen  —  I  don't  know  when 
I  last  gave  an  order.  The  children  —  there's  never  a 
word.  The  thing's  organised.  I'm  an  organiser."  She 
laughed,  "  Dear,  that's  why  they're  sending  me.  Isn't  it 
organised?  " 

He  assented,  but  with  an  inflexion  on  the  word 
"  It's  —  ors:anised." 


272  THIS  FREEDOM 

She  did  not  attend  the  inflexion.  "  Well,  that's  no  or- 
ganisation that  can't,  in  necessity,  run  by  itself.  This  can. 
You  know,  quite  well,  this  will.  You  know,  quite  well, 
that  you  will  not  be  put  about  a  jot." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  then.     Astonished  —  why  astonished?  " 

He  looked  at  her.  "  Let's  call  it,"  he  said,  "  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  thing." 

Oh,  now  astonishment  between  them.  Her  voice, 
astounded,  had  an  echo's  sound  —  faint,  faint,  scarcely  to 
be  heard,  gone.     "  The  prin-ci-ple!  " 

This  room  was  lit,  then,  only  by  a  standard  lamp  re- 
mote from  where  they  were  beside  the  fire.  She  was  in 
a  deep  armchair;  its  partner,  Harry's  chair,  close  by.  He 
sat  himself  on  the  arm,  looking  towards  her.  The  fire- 
light made  shadows  on  his  face. 

She  presently  murmured,  her  voice  as  though  that  echo, 
lost,  was  murmuring  back,  "  Oh,  it  is  I  that  am  astonished 
now.  The  principle !  It's  like  a  ghost.  Harry,  how  pos- 
sibly can  there  come  between  us  the  principle?" 

His  voice  was  deep,  "  Are  we  afraid  of  it,  old  girl?  " 

She  put  out  a  hand  and  touched  him  and  he  touched 
her  hand.  They  were  such  lovers  still.  That  was  the 
thing  about  it.  There  never  had  been  an  issue  between 
them,  not  the  smallest ;  the  bloom  of  their  first  union 
never  had  dissipated,  not  a  rub.  But  there  was  in  Harry 
the  intention  now  to  take  her,  and  there  was  in  her  the 
apprehension  now  of  beJTig  taken,  to  a  new  dimension  of 
conversation,  not  previously  trod  by  them.  As  they  pro- 
ceeded it  was  seen  not  to  be  light  in  this  place;  a  place 
where  touch  might  be  lost. 

She  said,  "  But  to  bring  up  the  principle  in  this !  It 
can't  be  possible  you've  changed.  It  isn't  conceivable  to 
me  that  you  have  changed.     Then  how  the  principle?  " 

"  It  is  the  situation  that  has  changed,  Rosalie.    It  never 


THIS  FREEDOM  273 

occurred  to  me ;  I  never  dreamt  or  imagined  that  a  thing 
like  this  could  arise." 

She  moved  in  her  chair.    "  Oh,  this  goes  deep.  .  .  ." 

He  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.     "  We're  not  afraid." 

"  But  I'm  so  strong  in  this.  So  always  certain.  In  our 
dear  years  together  so  utterly  assured.  Nothing  within 
the  principle  could  touch  me.  I  am  steel  everywhere  upon 
the  principle.     I  might  hurt  you,  Harry." 

"  I'll  not  be  hurt." 

"  Well,  say  it,  Harry." 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  "  There  isn't  really  very 
much  to  say.     To  me  it's  so  clear." 

She  murmured,  "  And  to  me." 

He  said,  "  We've  made  this  home  —  eleven  years.  It's 
been  ideal.  You  have  combined  your  work  with  your  — 
what  shall  I  call  it?  —  wath  your  domestic  arrangements 
—  your  business  with  your  domesticity  —  You've  done 
it  wonderfully.  We've  never  had  to  discuss  the  subject 
since  we  agreed  upon  it." 

She  murmured,  "  That  is  why  —  agreed." 

"  Agreed  in  general.  But  w^hen  you  take  the  home  as 
between  a  man  and  a  woman,  there  are  bound  to  be  re- 
sponsibilities which,  however  much  you  share,  cannot  be 
divided.    The  woman's  are  the  —  the  domesticity." 

"What  are  the  man's?  " 

"  To  maintain  the  home." 

"  I  share  in  that." 

"  Well,  grant  you  do.  I  do  not  claim  to  share  the 
other." 

"  You  are  not  asked  to,  Harry." 

"  No,  but,  Rosalie,  I've  the  right  to  ask  you  to  provide 
the  other." 

Her  murmur  said,  "  Oh,  do  not  let  us  bring  up  rights. 
I  am  so  fixed  on  rights." 

"  Rosalie,  let's  keep  the  thing  square.    A  man  can  leave 


274  THIS  FREEDOM 

his  home;  he  often  has  to.  I  think  not  so  a  woman;  not 
a  mother;  not  as  you  wish  now  to  leave  it.  It  can't,  with- 
out her,  go  on  —  not  in  the  same  way." 

"  Yes,  ours.     Ours  can." 

"  Not  in  the  same  way.  You  can't  take  out  the  woman 
and  leave  it  the  same,  —  the  same  for  the  man,  the  same 
for  the  children.  We're  married.  The  married  state. 
With  children.  Doesn't  the  whole  fabric  of  the  married 
state  rest  on  the  domesticity  of  woman?  " 

She  murmured,  "  No,  on  her  resignation,  Harry." 

As  if  he  had  touched  something  and  been  burnt  he  very 
sharply  drew  in  his  breath. 

She  said,  "  Ah,  you'd  be  hurt,  I  told  you.  Dear,  I  can't 
be  other  than  I  am  on  this.  Upon  her  resignation, 
Harry.  Men  call  it  domesticity.  That's  their  fair  word 
for  their  offence.  It's  woman's  resignation  is  the  fabric 
of  the  married  state.  She  lets  her  home  be  built  upon 
her  back.  She  resigns  everything  to  carry  it.  She  has 
to.  If  she  moves  it  shakes.  If  she  stands  upright  it 
crashes.  Dear,  not  ours.  I've  stood  upright  all  the  time. 
I've  proved  the  fallacy.  A  woman  can  stand  upright  and 
yet  be  wife,  be  mother,  make  home.  Dear,  you  are  not 
to  ask  me  now  —  for  resignation." 

Therein,  and  through  all  the  passage  of  this  place 
where  the  footway  was  uneven,  the  light  not  good,  the 
quality  of  her  voice  was  low  and  noteless,  sometimes  diffi- 
cult to  hear.  There  is  to  say  it  was  by  that  the  more 
assured,  as  is  more  purposeful  in  its  suggestion  the  tide 
that  enters,  not  upon  the  gale,  but  in  the  calm  and  steady 
flow  of  its  own  strength. 

The  quality  of  Harry's  voice  was  very  deep  and  some- 
times halting,  as  though  it  were  out  of  much  difficulty 
that  he  spoke.  He  said,  deeply,  "  That  you  stand  up- 
right does  not  discharge  you  from  responsibilities." 


THIS  FREEDOM  275 

She  said,  "  Dear,  nor  my  responsibilities  discharge  me 
from  my  privileges." 

There  was  then  a  silence. 

He  spoke,  "  But  I  am  going  to  press  this,  Rosalie.  I 
say,  with  all  admitted,  this  thing  —  this  '  I  could  go  but 
you  should  not  go  '  —  is  different  as  between  us.  I  am  a 
man." 

She  made  a  movement  in  her  chair.  "  Ah,  let  that  go. 
I  have  a  reply  to  that." 

"What  reply?" 

"  I  am  a  woman." 

He  began  —  "  It's  nothing  — .'' 

She  said,  "  Oh,  painful  to  give  you  pain.  To  me  — 
everything." 

He  got  up  from  his  position  beside  her  and  went  to  his 
chair  and  seated  himself.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
chair,  bowed  forward,  his  forearms  on  his  knees,  his 
hands  clasped;  not  smoking;  his  pipe  between  his  fingers, 
his  eyes  upon  the  fire.  Once  or  twice,  his  hands  close 
to  his  face,  he  slightly  raised  them  and  with  his  pipe-stem 
softly  tapped  his  teeth. 


CHAPTER  IX 

He  had  called  it  the  principle.  She  watched  him.  That 
attitude  in  which  he  sat  was  of  a  profundity  of  meditation 
not  to  be  looked  upon  without  that  sense  of  awe,  of  op- 
pression, of  misgiving  that  is  aroused  by  the  suggestion 
in  man  or  nature  of  brooding  forces  mysteriously  en- 
grossed. There  came  to  her,  watching  him,  a  thought 
that  newly  disturbed  her  thoughts.  He  had  called  it  the 
principle.  She  had  been  astonished  but  she  had  not  been 
perturbed.  Upon  the  principle  as  between  man  and 
woman,  husband  and  wife,  she  was,  as  she  had  said,  so 
strong,  so  confident,  accustomed  and  assured,  that  there 
was  nothing  could  be  said  could  touch  her  there.  But  it 
was  not  the  principle.  This  was  the  knowledge  brought 
to  her  by  the  new  thought  suddenly  appeared  in  her  mind, 
standing  there  like  a  strange  face  in  a  council  of  friends, 
unbidden  and  of  a  suspect  look.  What  if  she  communi- 
cated that  knowledge  to  Harry  brooding  there?  He  had 
called  it  the  principle.  What  if  she  put  across  the  shad- 
owed room  the  sentence  that  should  inform  him  it  was 
not  the  principle  but  was  an  issue  flying  the  flag  of  ships 
whose  freights  are  dangerous?  What  if  she  put  across 
the  shadowed  room  the  sentence,  "  Men  that  marry  for 
a  home  "  ? 

Ay,  that  was  it !  The  thing  she  had  always  known  and 
never  told.  Those  are  keepsakes  of  our  secret  selves, 
those  observations,  vows,  conspiracies  with  which  ro- 
mantically we  plot  towards  our  ideals.  This  the  sole  keep- 
sake of  her  treasury  she  never  had  revealed  to  Harry. 
Significant  she  had  not.     Some  instinct  must  have  stayed 


THIS  FREEDOM  277 

her.  Yes,  significant !  He  had  called  it  the  principle.  It 
was  not  the  principle.  He  was  sincere  upon  the  principle 
and  in  the  examination  of  eleven  years  had  proved  his  sni- 
cerity.  It  was  not  the  principle.  It  was  that  herein,  in 
her  intention  to  exercise  her  freedom  in  a  new  dimension, 
she  had  touched  him,  not  through  the  principle,  but  upon 
the  instinct  that  led  him,  as  she  believed  men  to  be  led,  to 
marry  for  a  home,  a  settling-in  place,  a  settling-down 
place,  a  cave  to  enter  into  and  to  shut  the  door  upon. 

Oh,  this  was  dangerous!  There  were  no  lengths  to 
which  this  might  not  lead!  If  at  her  first  essay  at  that 
which  countered  his  idea  of  home  she  was  to  be  asked 
to  pause,  what,  in  the  increasing  convolutions  of  the 
years,  might  not  she  be  asked  to  abandon?  Let  him  at- 
tempt restriction  of  her  by  appeal  to  principle  and  she 
could  stand,  and  win,  unscathed.  Let  him  oppose  her  by 
his  wish  within  his  home  to  shut  the  door,  and  that  was 
to  put  upon  her  an  injury  that  only  by  giving  him  pain 
could  be  fought.  Oh,  dangerous!  Not  less  an  injury 
because  by  sentiment  and  not  by  reason  done !  Much 
more  an  injury  because  so  subtly  done!  Much  more! 
Dangerous!     Ah,  from  this  the  outset  to  be  withstood! 

He  spoke  and  his  first  words  were  confirmation  of  her 
fears. 

"  Rosalie,  do  you  feel  quite  all  right  about  the  chil- 
dren?" 

Yes,  she  could  see  where  this  was  set  to  lead.  He  could 
leave  her  with  the  children ;  but  she  —  men  that  married 
for  a  home  —  could  not  leave  him  with  the  children. 

She  said  gently,  "  Dear,  there'll  not  be  the  least  dif- 
ficulty. Everything's  perfectly  arranged.  Everything 
will  perfectly  well  go  on." 

He  had  not  moved  his  pose  and  did  not  move  it.  His 
voice  presented  in  tone  the  profound  meditation  that  his 
pose  presented.     He  said,  "  I  don't  quite  mean  that.     I 


278  THIS  FREEDOM 

mean,  do  you  always  feel  everything's  quite  all  right  with 
tliem?" 

How  setting  now?  She  answered,  "Dear,  of  course 
I  do." 

His  eyes  remained  upon  the  lire.  "  Rosalie,  d'you 
know  I  sometimes  don't." 

Her  motion  —  a  lifting  of  her  face,  a  questing  of  her 
brows  —  was  of  a  helmsman's  gesture,  suspicious  to 
catch  before  it  set  a  shifting  of  the  breeze.  "  Harry,  in 
what  way?     They're  splendid." 

"You  feel  that?" 

"  Dear,  you  know  they  are." 

He  put  his  pipe  to  his  mouth  and  with  that  meditative 
tapping  tapped  his  teeth.  "  Splendid,  yes,  in  health,  in 
appearance,  in  development,  in  all  that  kind  of  thing.  I 
don't  mean  that."  He  turned  his  face  towards  her  and 
spoke  directly.  "  Rosalie,  have  you  ever  thought  they're 
not  quite  like  other  children  ?  " 

Oh,  setting  from  what  quarter  this?  She  said, 
"  They're  better  —  miles  and  miles." 

He  got  up.  "  Well,  that's  all  right.  H  you  have  no- 
ticed nothing,  that's  all  right." 

"  But,  Harry.  I  am  at  a  loss,  dear.  Of  course  it's  all 
right.   But  what  have  you  noticed,  think  you've  noticed?  " 

He  was  standing  before  her,  his  back  against  the  man- 
telpiece, looking  down  at  her.  "  Just  that  —  not  quite 
like  other  children." 

"  But  in  what  way?  " 

"  It's  hard  to  say,  old  girl.  If  you've  not  noticed  it, 
harder  still.  Not  quite  so  childish  as  at  their  age  I  seem 
to  remember  myself  with  my  brothers  and  sisters  being 
childish.  A  kind  of  —  reserve.  A  kind  of  —  self-con- 
tained." 

She  shook  her  head,  "  No,  no." 

"You  think  it's  fancy?" 


THIS  FREEDOM  279 

"  I'm  sure  it  is." 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  "  It's  rather  worried 
me.  And  of  course  now —  If  you  are  going  to  be 
away  —  " 

Stand  by !    She  had  the  drift  of  this ! 

She  said  simply,  "  Harry,  this  can't  be." 

"  You  can't  give  up  the  idea?  " 

Her  hand  upon  the  helm  that  steered  her  life  con- 
stricted. "  It  is  not  to  be  asked  of  me  to  give  it  up." 
She  paused.  She  said  softly,  "  Dear,  this  is  a  forward 
step  for  me.  You  are  asking  me  to  make  a  sacrifice.  I 
would  not  ask  you." 

He  began,  "  There  are  sacrifices  —  " 

"  They  are  not  asked  of  men." 

He  said,  "  Rosalie,  you  said  once,  when  Benji  w^as 
born,  that,  if  at  any  time  need  be,  you  would  give  up,  not 
a  thing  like  this,  but  your  work  entirely." 

As  if  to  shield  or  to  support  her  heart  she  drew  her 
left  hand  to  it.     "  Would  you  give  up  yours,  Harry?  " 

He  said  quickly,  "  I'm  not  suggesting  such  a  thing.  It 
is  ridiculous.     I'm  only  showing  you  —  " 

She  began  to  say  her  say,  her  voice  reflective  as  his  own 
had  been.  "  But  you  have  shown  me  frightful  things, 
shown  me  how^  far  and  oh,  how  quick,  a  thing  that  starts 
may  go.  Oh,  my  dear,  know  the  answer  before  it  ever 
is  suggested.  Sacrifices!  It  is  sacrifice  for  the  children 
that  you  profess  to  mean.  Well,  let  us  call  it  that.  Have 
you  ever  heard  of  a  father  sacrificing  himself  for  his  chil- 
dren? There's  no  such  phrase.  There's  only  the  femi- 
nine gender  for  that.  '  Sacrificed  himself  for  his  wife 
and  children.'  It's  a  solecism.  If  grammar  means  good 
sense,  it  isn't  grammar  because  it's  meaningless.  It  can't 
be  said.  It's  grotesque.  But  '  Sacrificed  herself  for  her 
husband  and  her  children,'  —  w^hy,  that  the  commonest 
of  cliches.     It's  wTitten  on  half  the  mothers'  brows;  it 


280  THIS  FREEDOM 

should  be  carved  on  half  the  mothers'  tombs  —  upon  my 
own  dear  mother's."  She  stood  up  and  faced  him. 
*'  Harry,  not  on  mine."  She  put  a  gentle  hand  on  his. 
"  I  love  you  —  you  know  what  our  love  is.  I  love  the 
children  —  with  a  truer  love  that  they  have  never  been 
a  burden  to  me  nor  I  on  a  single  occasion  out  of  mood 
with  them.  But,  Harry,  I  will  not  sacrifice  myself  for 
the  children.  When  I  ask  that  of  you,  ask  it  of  me.  But 
I  never  will  ask  it  of  you." 

She  was  trembling. 

He  put  an  arm  about  her  shoulders.  "  It's  over.  It's 
over.     Let's  forget  it,  Rosalie." 

Of  course  she  did  not  forget  it.  Of  course  she  knew 
that  Harry  could  not.  Men  that  marry  for  a  home ! 
Already  in  his  mind  the  thought  that  for  his  home  she 
should  give  up,  not  only  this  present  forward  step,  but  — 
everything !  Oh,  man-made  world !  Oh,  man-made  men ! 
"  It's  over.  It's  over,"  he  had  said.  Of  course  she  knew 
it  was  not  over.  Men  that  marry  for  a  home !  Secret 
she  had  kept  it  and  in  the  same  moment  that  she  had  rea- 
lised the  significance  of  her  secrecy  it  had  been  enlarged. 
Now  it  stalked  abroad. 

But  what  is  to  be  observed  is  the  quality  of  the  love 
between  them.  It  was  through  the  children  that  he  had 
made  this  claim  that  he  had  sought  to  impose  upon  her. 
She  had  told  him,  as  she  believed,  that  what  he  thought 
he  saw  was  fancy.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  imagine 
so  base  a  thing  as  that  he,  to  give  himself  grounds,  had  in- 
vented or  even  exaggerated  his  fancy;  but  it  had  been 
excusable  in  her  (threatened  as  she  saw  herself)  to  avoid, 
in  the  days  that  followed,  discussion  of  that  fancy,  much 
less  herself  to  bring  it  forward.  Her  love  for  Harry  was 
never  in  that  plane.  It  could  admit  no  guile.  It  happened 
that  within  the  week  she  was  herself  a  little  pained  by 


THIS  FREEDOM  281 

matter  with  the  children.  She  took  her  pain  straight  to 
her  Harry. 

On  his  last  day  of  the  holidays  before  he  returned  for 
his  second  term  at  his  preparatory  school,  Huggo  was 
noisy  with  excitement  at  the  idea  of  returning.  It  rather 
pained  Rosalie  that  he  showed  not  the  smallest  sign  of 
regret  at  leaving  home.  Miss  Prescott  had  done  all  the 
necessary  business  of  getting  his  clothes  ready  for  school 
but  Rosalie  took  from  Field's  this  last  afternoon  to  do 
some  shopping  with  her  little  man  (as  she  termed  it)  in 
Oxford  Street;  to  buy  him  some  little  personal  things  he 
wanted,  —  a  purse  of  pigskin  that  fastened  with  a  button, 
a  knife  with  a  thing  for  taking  stones  out  of  horses' 
hoofs,  and  a  special  kind  of  football  boots.  Since  there 
had  come  to  her  the  "  men  that  marry  for  a  home  "  sig- 
nificance, that  mirage  in  her  face  had  much  presented  that 
mutinous  and  determined  boy  it  often  showed.  Only  the 
mother  was  there  when  she  set  out  with  Huggo.  And 
then  the  sense  of  pain. 

Oxford  Street  appeared  to  be  swarming  with  small 
boys  and  their  mothers  similarly  engaged.  All  the  small 
boys  wore  blue  overcoats  with  velvet  collar  and  looked 
to  Rosalie  most  lovably  comic  in  bowler  hats  that  seemed 
enormously  too  big  for  their  small  heads.  Huggo  was 
dressed  to  the  same  pattern  but  his  hat  exactly  suited  his 
face  which  was  thin  and,  by  contrast  with  these  others, 
old  for  his  years.  Rosalie  wished  somehow  that  Huggo's 
hat  didn't  suit  so  well ;  the  imminent  extinguisher  look  of 
theirs  made  them  look  such  darling  babies.  And  what 
really  brought  out  the  difference  was  that  all  these  other 
small  boys  invariably  had  a  hand  stretched  up  to  hold 
their  m.others'  arms  and  walked  with  faces  turned  up. 
chattering.  Huggo  didn't.  She  asked  him  to.  He  said, 
"Mother,  why?^" 

"  I'd  love  you  to,  darling." 


282  THIS  FREEDOM 

He  put  up  his  hand  and  she  pressed  it  with  her  arm  to 
her  side,  but  she  noticed  that  he  was  looking  away  into  a 
shop  window  while  he  did  as  he  was  asked,  and  there 
came  in  less  than  a  dozen  paces  a  congestion  on  the  pave- 
ment that  caused  him  to  slip  behind  her,  removing  his 
hand.     He  did  not  replace  it. 

In  the  shop  where  the  knife  was  to  be  bought  an  im- 
mense tray  of  every  variety  of  pocketknife  was  put  be- 
fore them.  Huggo  opened  and  shut  blades  with  a  curi- 
ously impatient  air  as  though  afraid  of  being  interfered 
with  before  he  had  made  his  choice.  Immediately  beside 
Rosalie  was  another  mother  engaged  with  another  son 
upon  another  tray. 

"■  It's  got  to  have  a  thing  for  levering  stones  out  of 
horses'  hoofs,"  said  Huggo,  brushing  aside  a  knife  of- 
fered by  the  assistant  and  rummaging  a  little  roughly. 

Rosalie  said,  "  Darling,  I  can't  think  what  you  can 
want  such  a  thing  for." 

The  lady  beside  her  caught  her  eye  and  laughed. 
"  That's  just  what  I'm  asking  my  small  man,"  she  said. 

Her  small  man,  whose  face  was  merry  and  whose  hat 
appeared  to  be  supported  by  his  ears,  looked  up  at  Rosalie 
with  an  engaging  smile  and  said  in  a  very  frank  voice, 
"  It's  jolly  useful  for  lugging  up  tight  things  or  to  hook 
up  tofifee  that's  stuck." 

They  all  three  laughed.  Huggo,  busily  engaged,  took 
no  notice. 

He  found  the  knife  he  wanted.  Rosalie  showed  him 
another.  "  Huggo,  I'm  sure  that  one's  too  heavy  and 
clumsy." 

The  voice  of  the  little  boy  with  the  hat  on  his  ears 
came,  "  Mummie,  I'd  rather  have  this  one  because  you 
chose  it." 

Rosalie  said  to  Huggo,  "  It  will  weigh  down  your 
pocket  so." 


THIS  FREEDOM  283 

"This  one!  This  one!"  cried  Huggo  and  made  a 
vexed  movement  with  a  foot. 

Rosalie,  sitting  with  Harry  before  the  fire  in  Harry's 
room  that  niglit  said,  "  Harry,  teU  me  some  more  of  what 
you  said  the  other  day  about  the  children." 

He  looked  up  at  her.  He  clearly  was  surprised. 
"  You've  been  thinking  about  it?  " 

"  I've  been  with  Huggo  shopping  for  him  this  after- 
noon and  been  at  little  things  a  little  sad.  Harry,  when 
you  said  '  not  like  other  children  '  did  you  mean  not  — 
responsive?  " 

He  said  intensely,  "  Rosalie,  it  is  the  word.  It's  what 
I  meant.  I  couldn't  get  it.  I  wonder  I  didn't.  It's  my 
meaning  exactly  —  not  responsive.     You've  noticed  it?" 

"  Oh,  tell  me  first." 

"  Rosalie,  it's  sometimes  that  I've  gone  in  to  the  three 
of  them  wanting  to  be  one  with  them,  to  be  a  child  with 
them  and  invent  things  and  imagine  things.  Somehow 
they  don't  seem  to  want  it.  They  don't  —  invite  it.  Your 
word,  they  don't  —  respond.  I  want  them  to  open  their 
hearts  and  let  me  right  inside.  Somehow  they  don't  seem 
to  open  their  hearts." 

She  said,  "  Harry,  they're  such  mites." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  They're  not  mites,  old  girl. 
Only  Benji.  And  even  Benji —  It  was  different  when 
they  were  wee  things.  It's  lately,  all  this.  They  don't 
seem  to  understand,  Rosalie  —  to  understand  what  it  is  I 
want.  That's  the  thing  that  troubles  me.  It's  an  extraor- 
dinary thing  to  say,  but  it's  been  to  me  sometimes  as  if 
I  were  the  child  longing  to  be  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  to 
have  arms  opened  to  me,  and  they  were  the  grown-ups, 
holding  me  off,  not  understanding  what  it  is  I  want.  Not 
understanding.     Rosalie,  why  don't  they  understand?" 

She  had  a  hand  extended  to  the  fire  and  she  was  slowly 


284  THIS  FREEDOM 

opening  and  shutting  her  fingers  at  the  flames.  This, 
coming  upon  the  feehng  she  had  had  that  afternoon  with 
Huggo,  was  hke  a  book  wherein  was  analysed  that  feel- 
ing. But,  "  I  am  sure  they  do  understand,  dear,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  sure  it's  fancy." 

"  I  think  you're  not  sure,  Rosalie." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am.  If  it's  anything  it's  just  perhaps 
their  way  —  all  children  have  their  ways.  What  I 
thought  about  Huggo  this  afternoon  might  perhaps  be 
something  what  you  mean.  Harry,  if  it  is,  it's  just  the 
little  man's  way." 

"  What  was  it  you  thought?  " 

She  maintained  that  movement  of  the  fingers  of  her 
hand.  "  Why,  only  things  I  noticed ;  tiny  things ;  noth- 
ings, I'm  sure.  Out  shopping  with  me,  Harry.  Well,  it 
was  his  last  day  and  I  would  have  expected  somehow  he 
would  have  been  fonder  for  that.  He  wasn't  and  I  rather 
felt  it.  Things  like  that.  I  would  so  like  him  to  have 
held  my  arm.  He  didn't  want  to.  Not  very  grateful  for 
the  things  we  bought.  But  there,  why  should  he  be,  dear 
Huggo?  But  just  his  way;  that's  what  one  ought  to 
think.     But  I  felt  it  a  little." 

Harry  said,  "  I  know.  I  know.  It's  that  that  I  have 
felt  —  not  responsive.  It's  what  I've  thought  I've  noticed 
in  them  all." 

Telling  him  perhaps  enlarged,  as  telling  does,  her  sen- 
sibilities.    She  said  very  quickly,  "  Not  Benji!  " 

"  Well,  Benji's  so  very  young.  But  even  —  But  in 
the  other  two  —  " 

She  said  as  quickly  as  before,  "  Ah,  Doda's  respon- 
sive!" 

"  You've  seen  it,  dear,  in  Huggo." 

"  Oh,  Harry,  nothing,  just  his  w^ay.     I'm  sorry  now  I 
mentioned  it." 
He  had  been  watching  the  flexion  of  her  hand.     He 


THIS  FREEDOM  285 

said,  "  I'm  glad  you  have.  When  I  spoke  of  it  the  other 
day  you  said  you  didn't  see  it.  I  think  it's  generous  in 
you  to  admit  you  have." 

She  murmured,  "  Generous?  " 

"  It  brings  up  —  Rosahe,  does  this  affect  a  Httle,  alter 
perhaps,  your  decision?" 

She  shut  her  fingers  sharply.  "  No."  She  kept  them 
shut.     "  There's  nothing  at  all  could  alter  that,  Harry." 

He  turned  aside  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe,  with  slow 
movements. 

It  has  been  warned  that  it  was  in  this  holidays  of 
Huggo's  from  his  preparatory  school  that  Time,  that 
bravo  of  the  cloak-and-dagger  school,  whipped  out  his 
blade  and  pounced.  These,  since  that  warning,  were  but 
the  doorways  and  the  lurking  posts  he  prowled  along. 

He  now  was  very  close  to  Rosalie. 

Rosalie  and  Harry  both  were  home  to  lunch  next  day. 
In  the  afternoon  they  were  to  take  Huggo  to  Charing 
Cross  to  see  him  off  in  the  saloon  specially  reserved  for 
his  school.  All  the  children  were  at  lunch  for  this  occa- 
sion. Benji  in  a  high  chair  just  like  the  high  chair  that 
had  been  Rosalie's  years  back  —  what  years  and  years !  — 
at  the  rectory.  Huggo  was  in  boisterous  spirits.  You 
would  think,  you  couldn't  help  thinking,  it  was  his  first 
day,  not  his  last  day  home.  Rosalie  observed  him  as  she 
had  not  before  observed  him.  How  he  talked!  Well, 
that  was  good.  How  could  Harry  have  thought  him  re- 
served? But  he  talked  a  shade  loudly  and  with  an  air 
curiously  self-opinionated.  But  he  was  such  a  child,  and 
opinions  were  delightful  in  a  child.  Yes,  but  something 
not  childish  in  his  way  of  expressing  his  opinions,  some- 
thing a  shade  superior,  self-satisfied;  and  she  particularly 
noticed  that  when  anything  in  the  way  of  information 
was  given  him  by  Harry  or  by  herself  he  never  accepted 


286  THIS  FREEDOM 

it  but  always  argued.  She  grew  very  silent.  She  felt  she 
would  have  given  anything  to  hear  him,  in  the  long  topic 
of  railways  with  his  father,  and  then  of  Tidborough 
School,  say,  "Do  they,  father?  "  or,  "  Does  it,  father?  " 
He  never  did.  He  alw-ays  knew  it  before  or  knew  dif- 
ferent. Once  on  a  subject  connected  wdth  the  famous 
school  Harry  said,  a  shade  of  rebuke  in  his  voice,  '*  My 
dear  old  chap,  I  was  at  Tidborough.  I  ought  to  know." 
Rosalie  felt  she  would  have  given  anything  in  the  world 
for  Huggo  to  reply,  "  Sorry,  father,  of  course  you  ought." 
Instead  he  bent  upon  his  plate  a  look  injured  and  resent- 
ful at  being  injured.  But  in  a  minute  she  was  reproach- 
ing herself  for  such  ideas.  Her  Huggo!  and  she  was 
sitting  here  criticising  him.  Different  from  other  chil- 
dren! Why,  if  so,  only  in  the  way  she  had  affirmed  to 
Harry  —  miles  and  miles  better.  Opinionated  ?  Why, 
famously  advanced  for  his  years.  Superior?  Why, 
bright,  clever,  not  a  nursery  boy.  She  had  been  wronging 
him,  she  had  been  criticising  him,  she  had  been  looking 
for  faults  in  him,  her  Huggo !     Unkind !     Unnatural ! 

Listen  to  him !  The  meal  was  ended.  His  father  was 
bantering  him  about  what  he  learnt,  or  didn't  learn,  at 
school;  was  offering  him  an  extra  live  shillings  to  his 
school  tip  if  he  could  answer  three  questions.  The  darling 
was  deliciously  excited  over  it.  How  his  voice  rang !  He 
was  putting  his  father  off  the  various  subjects  suggested. 
Not  Latin  —  he  hadn't  done  much  Latin ;  not  geography 
—  he  simply  hated  geography.     Listen  to  him ! 

"  Well,  scripture,"  Harry  was  saying.  "  Come,  they 
give  you  plenty  of  scripture?  " 

"Oh,  don't  they  just!  Tons  and  tons!"  Listen  to 
him  !  How  merry  he  was  now !  "  Tons  and  tons.  First 
lesson  every  morning.  But  don't  ask  scripture,  father. 
Father,  what's  the  use  of  learning  all  that  stuff,  about  the 
Flood,  about  the  Ark,  about  the  Israelites,  about  Samuel, 


THIS  FREEDOM  287 

about  Daniel,  about  crossing  the  Red  Sea,  about  all  that 
stuff;  what's  the  itsef  " 

Time  closed  his  fingers  on  his  haft  and  took  a  stride  to 
Rosalie. 

She  sat  upright.     She  stared  across  the  table  at  the  boy. 

Harry  said,  "  Here,  steady,  old  man.  '  What's  the 
user 

"Well,  what  J.J  the  use?  It's  all  rot.  You  know  it  isn't 
true." 

Time  flashed  his  blade  and  struck  her  terribly. 

She  called  out  dreadfully,  "  Huggo!" 

"  Mother,  you  know  it's  all  made  up!  " 

She  cried  out  in  a  girl's  voice  and  with  a  girl's  im- 
pulsive gesture  of  her  arm  across  the  table  towards  him, 
"It  isn't!    It  isn't!" 

Her  voice,  her  gesture,  the  look  upon  her  face  could 
not  but  startle  him.  He  was  red,  rather  frightened.  He 
said  mumblingly,  "  Well,  mother,  you've  never  taught  me 
any  different." 

She  was  seen  by  Harry  to  let  fall  her  extended  arm 
upon  the  table  and  draw  it  very  slowly  to  her  and  draw 
her  hand  then  to  her  heart  and  slowly  lean  herself  against 
her  chair-back,  staring  at  Huggo.  No  one  spoke.  She 
then  said  to  Huggo,  her  voice  very  low,  "  Darling,  run 
now  to  see  everything  is  in  your  playbox.  Doda,  help 
him.  Take  Benji,  darlings.  Benji,  go  and  see  the  lovely 
playbox  things." 

When  they  had  gone  she  was  seen  by  Harry  to  be 
working  with  her  fingers  at  her  key-ring.  In  one  hand 
she  held  the  ring,  in  the  other  a  key  that  she  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  remove.  It  was  obstinate.  She  wrestled  at 
it.  She  looked  up  at  Harry.  "  I  want  to  get  this  "  —  the 
key  came  away  in  her  hand  —  "  off." 

He  recognised  it  for  her  office  pass-key. 

Caused  by  that  cry  of  hers  to  Huggo  and  by  that  ges- 


288  THIS  FREEDOM 

ture  with  her  cry,  and  since  intensifying,  there  had  been  a 
constraint  that  he  was  very  glad  to  break.  He  remem- 
bered how  childishly  proud  she  had  been  of  that  key  on 
the  day  it  was  cut  for  her.  They  had  had  a  little  dinner 
to  celebrate  it,  and  she  had  dipped  it  in  her  champagne 
glass. 

He  said,  "  Your  pass-key?    Why?  " 

She  said,  "  I'm  coming  home,  Harry." 

"  Coming  home?  " 

She  was  sitting  back  in  her  chair.  She  tossed,  with  a 
negligent  movement  of  her  hand,  the  key  upon  the  table. 
"  I  have  done  with  all  that.    I  am  coming  home." 

He  got  up  very  quickly  and  came  around  the  table  to 
her. 


PART  FOUR 
HOUSE  OF  CARDS 


CHAPTER  1 

There  Is  a  state  wherein  the  mind,  normally  the 
court  of  pleas  where  reason  receives  and  administers  the 
supplications  of  the  senses,  is  not  in  session.  Reason  is 
sick,  suspends  his  office,  abrogates  his  authority,  with- 
draws to  some  deep  fastness  of  the  brain,  and  suffers  the 
hall  of  judgment  to  be  the  house  of  license  or  of  dreams : 
of  dreams,  as  sleep,  as  vanity  of  reverie;  of  license  when 
there  is  tumult  in  the  body  politic,  as  fever,  as  excesses  of 
the  passions,  as  great  shock.  Reason  is  sick,  withdraws, 
and  there  is  strange  business  in  that  place. 

If  that  is  just  the  way  one  writes,  not  susceptible  of 
easy  comprehension,  and  not  enough  explanatory  of  Rosa- 
lie's condition,  it  goes  like  this  in  Rosalie's  own  words. 
Drooped  back  there  in  her  chair  before  that  littered  dis- 
array of  lunch,  and  that  key  lying  there,  and  Harry  stoop- 
ing over  her  and  holding  both  her  hands,  she  said,  "Oh, 
Harry!    Oh,  Harry!    I  feel  deathly  sick." 

She  said  it  had  been  a  most  frightful  shock  to  her,  what 
Huggo  had  declared.  She  said,  "  Oh,  Harr}^  I  feel  all 
undone." 

Undone !  We'll  try  to  feel  her  mind  with  that ;  to  let 
that  explain  her  when  she  said  this  else,  and  when  she 
wrote  some  things  that  shall  be  given. 

She  said  she  had  suffered,  in  that  moment  of  crying  out 
to  Huggo  and  of  stretching  out  her  arm  to  him,  the  most 
extraordinary  —  what  was  the  word  ?  —  the  most  extra- 
ordinary hallucination.  "  Harry,  when  Huggo  said  that 
frightful  thing!  Oh,  Harry,  like  an  extraordinary 
dream,  I  was  a  child  again.     It  wasn't  here  it  was  hap- 


292  THIS  FREEDOM 

pening;  it  was  the  rectory;  and  not  you  and  the  children 
but  all  us  children  that  used  to  be  around  the  table  there. 
No,  not  quite  that.  More  extraordinary  than  that.  Robert 
was  there ;  Robert,  I  think,  in  Huggo's  place ;  and  all  the 
rest  were  me  —  me  as  I  used  to  be  when  I  was  ten ;  small, 
grave,  wondering,  staring.  And  yet  myself  me  too  as  I 
was  then  —  oh,  horrified  as  I'd  have  then  been  horrified 
to  hear  the  Bible  stories  called  untrue;  jumped  up  and 
crying  out,  *  It  isn't !  It  isn't !  '  as  I  would  then  have 
jumped  up  and  cried  out ;  and  all  the  other  Rosalies  staring 
in  wonder  as  I'd  have  stared.  Oh,  extraordinary,  extra- 
ordinary !  Within  this  minute  I  have  been  a  child  again. 
The  strangest  thing,  the  strangest  thing ! 

"  I  was  a  child  again,  Harry,  in  a  blue  frock  I  used  to 
wear  and  in  a  pinafore  that  had  a  hole  in  it;  and  all  those 
other  Rosalies  the  same.  Those  other  Rosalies !  To  see 
them!  Harry,  I've  not  seen  that  Rosalie  I  used  to  be  — 
not  years  and  years.  That  tiny  innocent !  It  is  upon  me 
still.  I  feel  that  small  child  still.  Oh,  I  feel  it!  I  re- 
member—  dear,  did  I  ever  tell  you?  —  when  my  father 
once  .  .  .  had  been  talking  about  Cambridge  .  .  . 
and  suddenly  cried  out,  it  was  at  breakfast,  '  Cambridge! 
My  youth !  My  God,  my  God,  my  youth ! '  There  was 
coffee  from  a  cup  that  he'd  knocked  over  came  oozing, 
and  I  just  sat  there  huge-eyed,  staring,  a  small,  grave 
wondering  child.     .     .     . 

"  Oh,  Harry,  my  youth,  my  childhood  —  and  now  the 
children's !    The  difference !    The  difference  !  " 

Harry  talked  to  her.  He  ended,  "  The  teaching,  all  the 
ideas,  dear  girl,  you  mustn't  worry,  it's  all  different  now- 
adays." 

"  Harry,  to  hear  it  from  a  child  like  that !  " 

"  It's  startled  you.  It  needn't.  We'll  talk  it  out.  We'll 
fix  it.     It's  just  what  he's  been  taught,  old  girl." 

She  said,  "  Oh,  it  is  what  he's  not  been  taught !  " 


THIS  FREEDOM  293 

Then  there  were  things  that,  while  was  still  upon  her 
this  shock,  this  sense  of  being  again  the  small,  grave  child 
in  the  blue  frock  and  in  the  pinafore  with  the  hole  in  it, 
she  wrote  down.  She  dismissed  Miss  Prescott.  She 
thought,  when  the  interview  of  dismissal  opened,  that  she 
would  end  by  upbraiding  Miss  Prescott,  but  she  was 
abated  all  the  time  in  any  anger  that  she  might  have  felt 
by  Huggo's  other  frightful  words,  "Well,  mother,  you 
never  taught  me  any  dififerent."  She  did  not  want  to  hear 
Miss  Prescott  tell  her  that.  She  told  Miss  Prescott  simply 
that  she  was  giving  up  her  business  and  coming  now  to 
devote  herself  to  the  children.  She  thought,  she  said,  their 
education  had  in  some  respects  been  faulty,  and  told  ]\Iiss 
Prescott  how.  Miss  Prescott,  speaking  like  a  book,  told 
her  it  had  not  been  faulty  and  told  her  why.  "  Truth, 
knowledge,  reason,"  said  Miss  Prescott.  "  Could  it  con- 
ceivably be  contested  that  these  should  not  be  the  sole  food 
and  the  guiding  principle  of  the  child  mind?  " 

It  was  after  that  interview  that  Rosalie,  sitting  long 
into  the  night,  wrote  down  some  things.  She  is  to  be 
imagined  as  wrenched  back,  as  by  a  violent  hand,  across 
the  years,  and  in  the  blue  frock  and  the  pinafore  with  a 
hole  in  it  again,  and  awfully  frightened,  terribly  unhappy, 
at  the  thing  she'd  heard  from  Huggo.  That  was  the  form 
her  shock  took.  Beneath  it  she  had  at  a  blow  abandoned 
all  her  ambitions  as  when  a  child  she  would  instantly  have 
dropped  her  most  immersing  game  and  run  to  a  fright- 
ening cry  from  her  mother;  as  once,  in  fact  (and  the 
incident  and  the  parallel  came  back  to  her),  she  had  been 
building  a  house  of  cards,  holding  her  breath  not  to  shake 
it,  and  her  mother  had  scalded  her  hand  and  had  cried 
out  to  her,  frighteningly.  "Oh,  mummie,  mummie !  " 
she  had  cried,  running  to  her ;  and  flap !  the  house  of  cards 
had  gone.     Her  inward  cry  was  now,   "  The  children ! 


294  THIS  FREEDOM 

The  children!  "  and  what  amiss  the  leaving  of  her  work? 
Her  work!    Oh,  house  of  cards! 

Her  state  of  mind,  the  imaginings  in  which  that  shock 
came  to  her,  is  better  seen  by  what  she  wrote  down  pri- 
vately, to  relieve  herself,  than  by  the  talk  about  it  all  that 
she  had  with  her  Harry.  She  wrote  immediately  after 
Miss  Prescott  had  stood  up  for  "truth,  knowledge, 
reason,"  and  by  combating  truth,  knowledge,  and  reason 
more  clearly  expressed  herself  than  in  her  talk  with 
Harry.  It  was  in  her  diary  she  wrote  —  well,  it  wasn't 
exactly  a  diary,  it  was  a  desultory  journal  in  which  some- 
times she  wrote  things.  As  she  wrote,  her  brow,  in  the 
intensity  of  her  thought,  was  all  puckered  up.  She  still 
felt  "  deathly  sick ;  all  undone."     She  wrote : 

"Of  course  it's  as  she  says  (Miss  Prescott).  That  is 
the  kind  of  thing  to-day.  Knowledge,  stark  truth  — 
children  must  have  in  stark  truth  all  the  knowledge  there 
is  on  all  the  things  that  come  about  them.  It's  strange; 
yes,  it  is  strange.  No  parent  would  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
trust  a  child  with  all  the  money  she  has  nor  with  anything 
superlatively  precious  that  she  possesses ;  but  knowledge, 
which  is  above  all  wealth  and  above  all  treasure,  the  child 
is  to  have  to  play  with  as  it  likes.  Oh,  it  is  strange. 
Where  is  it  going  to  stop?  If  you  bring  up  a  child  on 
the  fact  that  all  the  Old  Testament  stories  are  untrue,  a 
bundle,  where  they  are  miraculous,  of  obviously  impos- 
sible fairy  tales,  what's  going  to  happen  to  the  New  Testa- 
ment? The  Immaculate  Conception,  the  Resurrection,  the 
Ascension  —  what's  your  child-mind  that  knows  the  old 
stories  for  inventions  going  to  say  to  those?  Are  they 
easier  to  believe?  The  Creation  or  the  Conception?  The 
Flood  or  the  Resurrection  ?  God  speaking  out  of  a  burn- 
ing bush  or  the  Ascension  to  Heaven?  The  pillar  of  cloud 
and  the  pillar  of  fire  or  the  Three  in  One  of  the  Trinity? 
Oh,  I  wonder  if  Modern  Thought  has  any  thought  to 


THIS  FREEDOM  295 

spare  for  that  side  of  the  business  —  or  for  its  results 
in  a  generation  or  two?  " 

Then  she  wrote : 

"  I've  never  taught  them  any  different." 

Then  she  wrote : 

"  Mother,  I  am  a  child  again  to-night.  Darling,  in 
that  blue  frock  I  used  to  wear.  Darling,  all  that  I  to-night 
am  thinking  is  what  you  taught  me.  Oh,  look  down,  be- 
loved !  I've  been  so  wrong.  I  thought  everything  was 
infinitely  better  for  them  than  you  made  it,  beloved 
mother,  for  me.    I  didn't  realise/' 

Then  she  wrote : 

"  It  just  means  losing  everything  in  God  that's  human. 
It  must  mean  that.  All  our  intelligence,  if  materialism 
may  be  called  intelligence ;  all  modern  teaching,  if  this  new 
stuff  that  they  pontificate  may  be  called  teaching,  offers 
us  God  the  Spirit  but,  as  it  seems  to  me  to-night,  denies 
us  God  the  Father  and  God  the  Son.  It  may  be  —  reason- 
able. But  things  spiritual  demand  for  their  recognition 
emotions  spiritual,  and  there's  a  pass  that  thousands  reach 
when  the  spirit  is  a  dead  thing.  If  they  are  to  believe  in 
God  only  as  a  Spirit,  a  Force,  a  Power ;  an  Essence  to  be 
felt  but  not  seen;  an  Element  to  be  absorbed  into  but 
not  to  be  visualised  —  if  this,  if  these,  there  needs  in  them 
some  spirit,  some  force,  some  power  of  themselves  to  lift 
themselves  to  meet  it.  They  must  be  of  themselves  re- 
sponsive as  hath  the  sea  within  itself  that  which  respond- 
eth  to  the  sublimation  of  the  sun.  Well,  there  are  thou- 
sands (am  I  not  one  ?)  that  have  it  not.  It  once  was  theirs. 
Now  it  is  not  theirs.  If  there  is  for  them  only  God  the 
Spirit  then  is  there  for  them  only  that  to  which  they  have 
no  more  power  to  reach  than  has  one  bedridden  power  to 
rise  and  find  a  mile  away  what  may  restore  him.  They 
have  only  that,  their  breaking  heart,  which  would  cast 
itself,  ah,  with  what  bliss  of  utter  abandonment,  before 


296  THIS  FREEDOM 

God  the  Father,  a  human  and  a  personal  Father,  quick 
to  succor,  and  before  God  the  Son,  a  human  and  a  per- 
sonal Son,  ardent  to  intercede.  And  that  is  denied  them. 
That  God  that  existed  and  that  was  taught  to  exist  for 
my  mother  and  for  her  day  to  this  day  may  not  exist.  It 
may  be  —  reasonable.  Oh,  it  is  offering  a  stone  where 
bread  was  sought." 

She  also  wrote : 

"  Oh,  mother,  if  you  could  have  been  here,  how  you 
would  have  loved  my  darlings,  and  how  you  would  have 
given  them  all  that  you  gave  to  me !  I  will  now,  mother. 
Mother,  I've  come  back  home  to  them,  in  the  blue  frock, 
and  in  the  pinafore  with  a  hole  in  it." 

That  was  the  spirit  in  which  she  came  back  home  to 
the  children,  that  and  all  that  went  with  it  and  that  arose 
out  of  it.  It  was  nothing  at  all  to  her  when  she  did  it,  the 
frightful  break  with  Field's.  Harry  was  distressed  for 
her,  but  there  was  no  need  at  all  for  him  to  be  distressed, 
she  told  him.  There  wasn't  a  sigh  in  her  voice,  nor  in  her 
inmost  thoughts  a  sigh,  when,  telling  him  of  the  interviev>7 
with  Mr.  Field  and  with  Mr.  Sturgiss  at  her  resignation 
of  her  post,  she  said  with  a  smile,  "  Carry  on?  Of  course 
the  department  can  perfectly  well  carry  on.  Dear,  it's 
just  the  words  I  said  to  you  a  fortnight  back  on  the  matter 
so  very  different.  '  The  thing's  organised.  It  runs  itself. 
That  is  why  it  is  the  success  it  is,  because  it's  organised. 
That's  why  I  can  come  away  and  leave  it,  because  I'm  an 
organiser.    Aren't  I  an  organiser?" 

He  held  her  immensely  long  in  his  arms.  "  You  are 
my  Rosalie,"  he  said. 

Immensely  long  he  held  her,  immensely  close ;  oh,  men 
that  marry  for  a  home !  Until,  come  home,  she  saw 
Harry's  tremendous  happiness  in  the  home  that  now  she 
gave  him,  she  never  had  realised  the  longing  that  must 


THIS  FREEDOM  297 

have  been  his  for  the  home  for  which  he  had  married, 
and  never  till  now  had  had.  It  was  poignant  to  her,  the 
sight  of  his  tremendous  happiness.  "Always  to  find  you 
here!  "  he  would  cry,  in  the  first  weeks  of  the  new  life, 
coming  home  to  tea  and  coming  in  to  her  in  the  drawing- 
room  where  she  would  be,  all  ready  for  him,  with  Doda 
and  with  Benji.  "  Always  to  leave  you  here!  "  he  would 
say,  taking  leave  of  her  in  the  morning,  and  she  and  Doda 
and  Benji  coming  with  him  to  the  hall  door  to  see  him 
off.  "  Mice  and  Mumps,"  he  used  to  add  in  codicil, 
"  Mice  and  Mumps,  I'm  a  happy  chap !  "  and  was  for  ever 
bringing  home  trifles  for  her  and  for  the  children,  or  plans 
and  passes  for  how  and  where  the  Saturday  and  the  week- 
end should  be  spent,  all  four  together.  "  Mice  and 
Mumps,  I'm  gorged  with  happiness!  And  you,  Rosalie?  " 

"  Oh,  happy !  "  she  used  to  say. 

And  was.  It  was  poignant  to  her,  his  tremendous  hap- 
piness, and  it  brimmed  up  the  cup  of  her  own  happiness. 
She  was  doing  virtuously  and  she  had  of  her  virtue  that 
happiness  which,  as  the  pious  old  maxims  tell  us,  comes 
of  being  good. 

That  should  have  been  well ;  but  virtue  is  a  placid  con- 
dition and  the  happiness  arising  out  of  it  placid.  It 
brims  no  cups,  flushes  no  cheeks,  sparkles  no  eyes.  It  is 
of  the  quality  of  happiness  that  one,  loving  a  garden,  has 
from  his  garden,  the  happiness  of  tranquillity,  not  of 
stir;  of  peace,  not  of  thrills;  of  the  country,  not  of  the 
town.  There  was  more  heady  stuff  than  this  that  Rosalie 
had  out  of  her  new  condition,  and  that  was  dangerous. 
She  was  doing  virtuously  and  she  had  out  of  her  virtue 
an  intoxication  of  joy  that,  in  so  far  as  it  is  at  all  con- 
cerned with  virtue,  arises,  not  from  virtue's  self,  but  from 
the  consciousness  of  virtue.  That  was  dangerous.  The 
danger  point  in  stimulants  is  when  they  are  resorted  to, 
not  as  concomitant  of  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  but  be- 


298  THIS  FREEDOM 

cause  they  stimulate.  Rosalie,  come  to  her  children  and 
her  Harry  and  her  home,  to  the  thought  of  her  renuncia- 
tion and  of  her  happiness  constantly  was  turning  for  the 
enormous  exhilaration  of  happiness  that  there  she  found. 
"  How  glad  I  am  I  gave  it  up !  How  glad !  How  glad ! 
How  right  I'm  doing  now!  How  right!  How  right! 
How  happy  I  am  in  this  happiness!  How  happy!  How 
happy ! '' 

Is  it  not  perceived  that  thus  it  was  not  well  assured,  this 
great  joy  that  she  had,  this  cup  of  hers  that  brimmed? 
She  started  from  that  danger  point  at  which  the  drug  is 
drunk  for  stimulant.  On  the  very  first  day  of  her  new 
life  she  was  saying,  "  How  glad  I  am !  How  glad  I  am !  " 
and  going  on  radiant  from  her  gladness.  But  she  in  her 
resort  to  this  her  stimulant  suffered  this  grave  disparity 
with  the  drinker's  case :  he  must  increase  his  doses  — 
and  he  can.  She,  living  upon  her  stimulant,  equally  was 
compelled  —  but  could  not.  The  renunciation  that 
brimmed  her  happiness  on  the  first  day  was  available  to 
her  in  no  bigger  dose  on  the  succeeding  days,  the 
hundredth  day  and  the  three  hundredth  and  the  five 
hundredth.  It  never  could  increase.  It  had  no  capacity 
of  increase.  Is  it  not  perceivable  that  it  had,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  staling  quality  ? 

It  would  have  been  all  right  if  it  had  been  all  right. 
It  would  have  been  all  right  if  it  had  not  been  all  wrong. 
If  these  absurd  premises  can  be  understood  her  case  can 
be  understood.  She  used  them  herself  in  after  years. 
"  It  would  have  been  all  right,"  she  used  to  say  to  herself, 
twisting  her  hands  together,  "if  it  had  been  all  right." 
"  It  would  have  loeen  all  right,"  she  used  to  say  to  herself, 
"  if  it  had  not  been  all  wrong."  What  she  meant,  and 
what  here  is  meant,  requires  it  to  be  recalled  that  it  was 
in  that  spirit  of  that  glimpse  of  herself  back  a  child  again 
in  the  blue  frock  and  in  the  pinafore  with  a  hole  in  it  that 


THIS  FREEDOM  299 

she  came  back  to  the  children,  came  back  home  to  them. 
Shocked  by  the  thing  that  had  come  to  pass,  penitential 
by  influence  of  the  old  childhood  influences  that  had 
stirred  within  her,  most  strangely  and  most  strongly 
transported  back  into  that  childhood  vision  of  herself,  it 
was  in  the  guise  of  that  child  and  with  that  child's  guise 
as  her  ideal  for  them  that  passionately  she  desired  to  take 
up  her  children's  lives.  Her  Huggo,  her  man  child,  her 
first  one  !  Eler  Doda,  her  self's  own  self,  her  woman-bud, 
her  daughter!  Her  Benji,  her  littlest  one,  her  darling! 
She  longed,  as  it  were,  to  throw  open  the  door,  and  in 
that  blue  frock  and  in  the  spirit  of  that  blue  frock  most 
ardently  to  run  in  to  them  and  hug  them,  blue  frocked,  to 
her  breast,  and  be  one  with  them  and  tell  them  the  things 
and  the  things  and  the  things  that  were  the  blue  frock's 
mysteries  and  joys,  and  hear  from  them  the  things  and 
the  things  and  the  things  that  were  the  blue  frock's  all- 
enchanted  world  again. 

That  was  what  most  terribly  she  wanted  and  with  most 
brimming  gladness  set  about  to  do  —  and  there  was  borne 
in  upon  her,  hinted  in  weeks,  published  in  months,  in  sea- 
sons sealed  and  delivered  to  her,  that  there  was  among 
her  children  no  place  for  that  spirit.  They  did  not  wel- 
come the  blue  frock;  they  did  not  understand  the  blue 
frock ;  they  were  not  children  as  she  had  been  a  child.  It 
was  what  Harry  had  said  of  them,  they  somehow  were 
not  quite  like  other  children ;  it  was  what  she  herself  had 
noticed  in  Huggo;  they  did  not  respond.  They'd  gone, 
those  children,  too  long  as  they'd  been  left  to  go.  She 
came  to  them  ardently.  They  greeted  her  —  not  very  re- 
sponsively.    They  didn't  understand. 

What  happened  was  that,  coming  to  them  great  with 
intention,  she  was,  by  what  she  did  not  find  in  them,  much 
dispirited  in  her  intention.  What  followed  from  that 
was  that  she  turned  the  more  frequently  to  the  stimula- 


300  THIS  FREEDOM 

tion  of  the  thought  of  her  renunciation,  to  the  sensation  of 
happiness  that  arose  in  her  by  consciousness  that  she  was 
doing  what  she  ought  to  be  doing.  She  would  be  puz- 
zled, she  would  be  a  little  pained,  she  would  be  a  little 
tired  at  the  effort,  fruitless,  to  call  up  in  the  children  those 
lovely  childish  things  that  as  a  child  had  been  hers.  She 
then  would  feel  dispirited.  She  then  would  think,  "  But 
how  glad  I  am  that  I  gave  it  all  up ;  but  how  right  I  am 
to  be  at  home  with  them ;  but  how  happy  I  am  that  I  am 
now  doing  that  which  is  right."  That  stimulated  her. 
That  made  her  tell  herself  (as  before  she  had  told  Harry) 
that  it  was  just  fancy,  this  apparent  difference,  this  indif- 
ference, in  the  children. 

But  the  more  she  found  necessary  that  stimulus  the  less 
that  stimulus  availed ;  and  she  began  to  feel,  then,  the  first 
faint  gnawings  after  that  which  had  been  stimulus  in- 
deed, her  work,  her  career. 

Of  course  this  is  making  a  case  for  her,  this  is  special 
pleading  for  her,  but  who  so  abandoned  that  in  the  ulti- 
mate judgment  a  case  will  not  for  him  be  prepared?  Try 
to  consider  how  it  went  with  her.  First  intoxication  of 
happiness;  and  must  not  intoxication  in  time  wear  off? 
Then  immense  intention  and  then  dispirited  in  her  inten- 
tion. Then  frequent  resource  to  the  stimulus  of  her  reali- 
sation of  virtue  and  then  the  natural  diminution  of  that 
cup's  effect.  Is  she  not  presented  prey  for  her  life's 
habit's  longings?  Is  she  not  shown  dejected  and  caused 
by  that  dejection  (as  caused  by  depression  the  reclaimed 
victim  of  a  drug)  to  desire  again  that  which  had  been 
to  her  the  breath  of  life? 

That  was  how  it  went  with  her. 

Doda  was  nine  when  she  began ;  Huggo,  when  he  was 
home  for  his  holidays,  eleven,  rising  twelve;  Benji  only 
seven.    They  seemed  to  her,  all  of  them,  wonderfully  old 


THIS  FREEDOM  301 

for  their  years  and,  no  getting  over  that,  different.  She 
tried  to  read  them  the  stories  she  used  to  love.  They 
didn't  Hke  them.  Doda  didn't  like  "The  Wide  Wide 
World  "  and  didn't  like  "  Little  Women."  Huggo  thought 
"  The  Swiss  Family  Robinson  "  awful  rot,  and  argued 
learnedly  with  her  how  grotesque  it  was  to  imagine  all 
that  variety  of  animals  and  all  that  variety  of  plants  in 
one  same  climate.  "  But,  Huggo,  you  needn't  worry 
whether  it  was  possible.  It  was  just  written  as  a  means  of 
telling  a  family  of  children  natural  history  things.  They 
didn't  have  to  believe  it.  They  only  enjoyed  it.  I  and 
your  uncle  Robert  never  worried  about  whether  it  was 
possible ;  we  simply  loved  the  adventure  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  can't,  mother,"  said  Huggo,  "  It's  not  pos- 
sible, and  if  it  isn't  possible  I  think  it's  stupid." 

And  Doda  thought  Ellen  in  the  "  Wide  Wide  World  " 
silly,  and  Beth  and  Jo  and  the  others  in  "  Little  Women  " 
dull. 

She  read  them  Dickens,  but  it  was  always,  "  Oh,  leave 
out  that  part,  mother.  It's  dull."  And  so  was  Scott. 
Lamb's  "Tales  from  Shakespeare"  never  had  a  chance  at 
all.  They  had  heard  from  Miss  Prescott,  or  Huggo  had 
heard  at  school,  that  Shakespeare  was  a  lesson.  "  Oh,  not 
a  thing  out  of  lessons,  mother."  What  they  liked  were 
what  seemed  to  Rosalie  the  crudely  written  stories,  and 
the  grotesque  and  usually  rather  vulgar  comic  drawings, 
in  the  host  of  cheap  periodicals  for  children  that  seemed 
to  have  sprung  up  since  her  day.  They  called  these  excit- 
ing or  funny  and  they  revelled  in  them.  They  were  dif- 
ferent. Benji  was  no  more  than  a  baby,  but  he  was 
extraordinarily  devoted  to  Doda,  liked  only  the  things 
that  Doda  liked,  and  did  not  like  the  things  that  Doda 
didn't  like,  or,  in  the  language  sometimes  a  little  unpleas- 
antly emphatic  that  always  was  Doda's  and  Huggo's,  that 
Doda  "  simply  loathed."     Rosalie  had  some  old  bound 


302  THIS  FREEDOM 

numbers  of  treasured  juvenile  periodicals  of  the  rectory 
days.  Even  Benji  didn't  like  them.  They  were  markedly 
different  from  the  books  the  children  did  like.  Their 
illustrations  were  mainly  of  children  in  domestic  scenes. 
"Don't  they  look  stupid?"  was  Doda's  comment;  and 
Benji,  copying,  thought  they  were  stupid  too. 

All  this  was  a  very  small  thing  and  of  itself  negligible; 
even,  as  Rosalie  told  herself,  natural  —  naturally  chil- 
dren of  succeeding  generations  changed  in  their  tastes. 
It  only  is  introduced  as  conveniently  showing  in  an 
obscure  aspect  what  was  noticeable  to  Rosalie,  and  felt 
by  her,  in  many  aspects,  whose  effect  was  cumulative. 
"  A  kind  of  reserve,"  Harry  had  said  of  them:  "  a  kind 
of  —  self-contained."  It  was  what  she  found.  She 
wanted  to  be  a  child  with  the  children ;  they  didn't  seem 
to  understand.  She  wanted  to  open  her  heart  to  them 
and  have  their  hearts  opened  to  her ;  they  didn't  seem  to 
understand.  She  was  always  seeing  that  vision  of  Rosalie 
in  the  blue  frock  among  them,  rather  like  Alice,  the  real 
Alice,  Tenniel's  Alice.  She  was  always  feeling  that  Ros- 
alie, thus  guised,  was  held  off  from  their  circle,  not  wel- 
comed, not  understood,  as  certainly  they  did  not  care  for 
the  demure,  quaint  Alice  of  Tenniel. 

She  began  to  have  sometimes  when  she  was  with  the 
children  an  extraordinary  feeling  (just  what  Harry  had 
said)  that  she  was  younger  than  the  children,  that  it  was 
she  who  was  the  child,  they  that  were  the  grown-ups. 

When  the  step  of  her  renunciation  was  first  taken, 
ardent  to  devote  herself  to  them  in  every  moment  of  the 
day,  she  began  to  give  their  lessons  to  Doda  and  to  Benji. 
It  was  not  a  success.  The  methods  of  teaching,  as  the 
text-books,  had  changed  since  she  was  a  child.  The 
Prescott  methods  were  here  and  to  her  own  methods  the 
children  did  not  respond.  There  it  was  again  —  did  not 
respond.     There  was  obtained  a  Miss  Dormer  who  came 


THIS  FREEDOM  303 

in  daily  and  who  confined  herself,  Rosalie  saw  to  that, 
solely  to  lessons;  the  walks  and  all  the  other  hours  of  the 
day  were  Rosalie's. 

That's  all  for  that.  The  picture  has  been  overdrawn  if 
has  been  given  the  suggestion  that  Rosalie  was  unhappy 
with  the  children  or  the  children  openly  indifferent  to  her. 
All  of  that  nature  that  in  fact  arose  was  that,  whereas 
Rosalie  had  expected  an  immense  and  absorbing  occupa- 
tion with  the  children,  she  found  instead  an  occupation 
very  loving  and  very  happy  but  not  relieving  her  of  all  the 
interest  and  all  the  affection  she  had  desired  to  pour  into 
it.  It  was  rather  like  to  a  hungry  person  a  strange  dish 
that  had  looked  substantial  but  that,  when  finished,  was 
found  not  to  have  been  substantial ;  still  hungry.  She  had 
thought  the  children  would  have  been  entirely  dependent 
on  her.  She  found  them  in  many  ways  independent  and 
wishing  to  be  independent.  It  would  have  been  all  right 
if  it  had  been  all  right.  That  was  it.  It  would  have  been 
all  right  if  it  had  not  been  all  wrong.    That  was  it. 

She  began  to  think  of  Field's. 

When  first  she  began  to  think  of  Field's,  which  was 
when  she  had  been  nine  months  away  from  Field's,  she 
would  let  her  mind  run  upon  it  freely,  as  it  would.  One 
day,  thus  thinking  upon  it,  she  brought  up  her  thoughts 
as  it  were  with  a  round  turn.  She  must  not  think  so 
much  about  Field's  —  not  like  that.  She  sighed,  and 
with  the  same  abruptness  of  mental  action  checked  her 
sigh ;  she  must  not  regret  Field's  —  not  like  that. 

It  was  a  fateful  prohibition.  It  was  the  discovery  to 
herself,  as  to  Eve  of  the  tree  by  the  serpent,  of  a  tempta- 
tion seductive  and  forbidden.  Thereafter  "  like  that  " 
her  mind,  missing  no  day  nor  no  night,  was  often  found 
by  her  to  be  there.  The  quality  that  made  "  like  that " 
not  seemly  to  her,  increased,  at  each  return,  its  potency. 


304  THIS  FREEDOM 

It  became  very  difficult  to  drag  her  mind  away.  It 
became  impossible  to  drag  her  mind  away. 

Her  governance  of  her  mind  became  infected  and  it 
became  not  necessary  to  think  it  necessary  to  drag  her 
mind  away. 

She  had  not  visited  Field's  since  she  had  left.  Mr. 
Sturgiss  and  Mr.  Field  had  written  to  her  reproaching 
her  for  carrying  to  such  lengths  of  neglect  her  desertion 
of  them,  and  she  had  responded  banteringly  but  without 
a  call.  One  day  (she  had  lain  much  awake  on  the  previ- 
ous night)  she  at  breakfast  told  Harry  she  had  the  idea 
of  going  that  afternoon  to  see  how  Field's  was  getting  on. 

She  was  surprised  at  his  supplement  to  his  reply.  The 
children  had  left  the  room.  He  first  agreed  with  her  that 
the  idea  was  good.  "Yes,  rather;  why  not?"  was  the 
expression  he  used.  He  then  said,  surprising  her,  "  Rosa- 
lie, you've  never,  have  you,  regretted?" 

Her  surprise  framed  for  her  her  reply.  "  Why  ever 
should  you  ask  that?  " 

"  I've  thought  you've  not  been  looking  very  well 
lately." 

"  But  what's  the  connection,  Harry  ?  " 

"Fretting?" 

She  smiled.     "  I'm  not  the  fretting  sort." 

He  was  perfectly  satisfied.  "  I  knew  you'd  tell  me  if 
you  were.    Everything  going  well?  " 

"  Fine." 

He  shot  out  his  arms  with  a  luxurious  stretching 
gesture.  "  Mice  and  Mumps,  it's  been  fine  for  me,  I  can 
tell  you.    Fine,  fine !  " 

How  happy  he  looked  !  How  handsome  he  looked !  Her 
thought  was  "  Dear  Harry !  " 

He  got  up  and  began  to  set  about  his  departure.  She 
went  with  him  into  the  hall  and  she  called  up  the  stairs, 
"  Children,  father's  going."     They  came  bounding  down 


THIS  FREEDOM  305 

He  joked  and  played  with  them.  He  loved  this  custom, 
now  long  established.  She  brushed  his  hat,  also  a  rite 
she  knew  he  loved.  He  kissed  her  with  particular  affec- 
tion. "  Yes,  you  go  up  to  Field's  and  give  old  Sturgiss 
and  old  Field  my  love.  You'll  almost  have  forgotten  the 
way  there.  I  say,  it's  funny,  isn't  it,  how  time  changes 
things  and  how  it  goes?  We  couldn't  have  imaged  this 
once,  and  here  it  is  the  most  established  thing  in  the 
Avorld.  Do  you  know,  it's  almost  exactly  a  year  since  you 
chucked  it?  " 

"  Chucked  it !  "  The  light  expression  smote  her.  O 
manlike  man  that  thus  could  phrase  divorce  that  fromx 
her  heart's  engrossment  had  cut  her  life  asunder ! 

In  the  afternoon  she  set  out  upon  her  intention.  It 
meant  nothing,  her  visit,  she  assured  herself.  It  had  no 
purpose  beyond  the  exchange  of  courtesies.  But  when 
she  was  leaving  the  house  she  paused.  Should  she  go? 
She  went  dow^n  the  steps  and  through  the  gate,  then 
paused  again.  She  returned  to  the  house.  She  had  an 
idea.  She  would  take  the  children  with  her.  She  called 
them,  and  while  they  gleefully  dressed  for  the  outing  she 
repeated  to  herself  the  word  in  which  the  idea  of  taking 
them  with  her  had  come  to  her. 

"A  bodyguard!"  she  said. 

The  note  of  laughter  she  gave  at  the  word  had  a 
tremulous  sound. 

Tremulous  would  well  have  described  her  manner  wdien 
they  were  at  Field's.  She  w-as  asking  herself  as  they 
went  towards  the  City  what  it  was  that  she  wanted  to 
hear  —  that  Field's  was  doing  very  well  without  her  ? 
That  her  department  was  not  doing  very  well  without  her  ? 
Which? 

She  would  not  let  her  mind  affirm  which  it  was  that 
she  desired. 


306  THIS  FREEDOM 

It  appeared,  when  they  arrived,  that  it  was  neither, 
nor  anything  at  all  to  do  with  the  Bank.  Her  first  words 
to  the  partners  were  of  smiling  apology  at  bringing  to 
precincts  sacred  to  business,  "  a  herd  of  children."  That 
was  a  natural  introduction  of  herself;  it  was  an  unusual 
thing  to  do.  But  not  natural  the  way  in  which  she  main- 
tained the  subject  of  the  children.  It  seemed  that  she 
had  come  to  talk  of  nothing  else.  Tremulous  she  was; 
talking,  of  the  children,  with  the  incessant  eagerness,  and 
with  the  nervous  eagerness,  of  one  either  clamant  to 
establish  a  case  or  frightened  of  a  break  in  the  conversa- 
tion lest  a  break  should  cause  appearance  of  a  subject  most 
desperately  to  be  avoided. 

Her  bodyguard ! 

Mr.  Field  and  Mr.  Sturgiss  were  delighted  to  see  her 
and  expressed  themselves  delighted  to  see  the  children. 
There  was  plenty  in  the  bank,  coffers  and  strong-rooms 
and  all  sorts  of  exciting  things,  said  Mr.  Field,  that  would 
amuse  the  small  people,  and  when  tea  was  done  they  should 
be  taken  around  to  see  them.  In  an  inner  holy  of  holies 
behind  the  partners'  parlour  a  very  exciting  tea  was  made. 
A  clerk  was  sent  out  for  a  parcel  of  pastries  and  returned 
with  an  enormous  bag,  and  there  was  no  tablecloth, 
nor  no  proper  tea-table,  and  the  children,  much  excited, 
were  immensely  entertained. 

Easy,  while  they  were  there,  to  make  them  the  conver- 
sation's centre.  But  the  meal  ended  and  then  became  most 
evident  her  anxiety  to  keep  the  chatter  on  the  children. 
They  became  impatient  to  be  off  on  the  promised  explora- 
tion. She  delayed  it.  Twice  the  clerk  who  was  to  con- 
duct the  tour  was  about  to  be  summoned.  By  a  new 
gathering  of  general  attention  she  stopped  his  coming. 
When  at  last  he  came  she  said  she  would  be  of  the  party. 
The  partners  did  not  want  that.  The  children  did  not  want 
it.     "Mother,  it  will  be  much  more  exciting  by  ourselves." 


THIS  FREEDOM  307 

She  insisted.  She  was  aware  for  the  first  and  only  time 
in  her  life  of  a  feeling  of  nerves,  of  not  being  quite  in 
control  of  herself,  of  making  of  her  insistence  rather 
more  than  should  be  made. 

"Well,  stay,"  said  Mr.  Sturgiss,  "at  least  for  a 
minute's  chat  before  you  join  them." 

That  was  not  possible,  unless  she  was  going  to  become 
hysterical,  to  resist.  The  children  trooped  away.  Her 
bodyguard ! 

She  turned  aside  and  it  is  to  be  remembered  for  her 
that,  her  face  concealed  from  the  partners,  she  gave  the 
tiniest  despairing  gesture  with  her  hands. 

When,  with  the  children,  she  was  returning  home,  she 
was  trying  to  determine  whether,  while  it  was  in  suspense, 
she  had  or  had  not  desired  to  hear  of  the  partners  that 
which  she  had  heard  from  them.  They  had  talked  with 
her  generally  of  the  business.  They  had  talked  particu- 
larly of  the  work  of  her  department  of  the  business. 
There  was  approaching  all  the  time  the  thing  that  sooner 
or  later  they  must  say.  She  was  trembling  all  the  time 
to  know  how  she  would  receive  it.  In  whichever  of  its 
two  ways  it  came  would  she  be  glad  or  would  she  be 
sorry?  She  simply  did  not  know.  She  suddenly  herself 
projected  the  point.  She  could  not  endure  any  longer  its 
delay.  "  And  Miss  Farmer,"  she  said.  "  How's  Miss 
Farmer  doing?"  Miss  Farmer,  formerly  one  of  her 
assistants,  had  on  her  resignation  taken  her  place. 

Miss  Farmer,  replied  Mr.  Sturgiss,  was  estimable  but 
—  he  opened  his  hands  and  made  with  them  a  deprecatory 
gesture.  "  She's  not  you.  How  could  she  be  you,  or 
any  one  be  you?  We  could  replace  Miss  Farmer.  What's 
the  good?  It's  you  we've  got  to  replace.  We  can't 
replace  you." 

Her  heart  had  bounded. 


CHAPTER  II 

That  happened  in  the  Christmas  hoHdays,  in  January. 
In  February  was  Doda's  eleventh  birthday.  The  child  had 
friends  rather  older  than  herself,  neighbours,  who  for  a 
year  had  been  boarders  at  a  school  in  Surrey.  She  was 
desperately  eager  to  join  them  there  and  it  was  a  promise 
from  Rosalie  that  she  should  go  when  she  was  twelve, 
earlier  if  she  were  good.  On  this  eleventh  birthday,  which 
brought  birthday  letters  from  the  neighbours  at  the  school 
and  thus  again  brought  up  the  subject,  "  Oh,  haven't  I 
been  good?  "  cried  Doda  at  the  birthday  breakfast.  "  Oh, 
do  let  me  go  next  term,  mother.  Father,  do  say  I  may." 
Her  eagerness  for  school  had  been  much  fostered  by 
Huggo's  holiday  stories  of  school  life;  and  Huggo,  as 
Doda  now  adduced,  was  leaving  his  preparatory  and 
starting  at  Tidborough  next  term ;  couldn't  she,  oh, 
couldn't  she  make  also  her  start  then  ? 

Harry  said,  "  O  grown-up  woman  of  enormous  years, 
think  of  your  sorrowing  parents.  How  will  you  like  to 
leave  your  weeping  mother,  Doda  ?  How  will  you  like  to 
leave  vour  heart-broken  old  father?  " 

"  Oh,  I'd  love  to!  "  cried  Doda. 

The  ingenuousness  of  it  made  her  parents  laugh. 

"  She'll  have  her  way,  won't  she?  ''  said  Harry,  when 
Doda,  conscious,  by  that  laugh,  of  tolerance,  had  danced 
out  of  the  room. 

"  I  think  she'd  better,"  said  Rosalie. 

The  school  was  very  well  known  to  Rosalie.  It  was 
exclusive  and  expensive;  was  limited  to  seventy  girls,  of 
whom  twenty,  under  the  age  of  thirteen,  were  received  in 


THIS  FREEDOM  309 

the  adapted  Dower  House  of  the  ancient  estate  which 
was  its  home;  and  the  last  word  in  modernity  was,  in 
every  point  of  administration,  its  first  word.  It  had  been 
estabHshed  only  eight  years.  The  motto  of  its  founders 
and  of  its  lady  principal  was  "  Not  traditions  —  prece- 
dents !  " 

The  subject  came  up  again  between  Rosalie  and  Harry 
that  evening  and  it  was  decided  that  Doda  should  be 
placed  there  after  the  next  holidays,  at  the  opening  of  the 
summer  term.  Harry  declared  himself,  "  in  my  bones  " 
as  he  expressed  it,  against  boarding  schools  for  girls, 
"  But  that's  my  old  fogeyism,"  said  he.  "  It's  the  modern 
idea  that  girls  should  have  the  same  training  and  the 
same  chances  in  life  as  their  brothers,  and  there's  no  get- 
ting away  from  the  right  of  it." 

Rosalie  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  To  what  end?  " 

He  did  not  hear  her.  She  had  got  out  from  the  accu- 
mulation of  papers  of  her  business  life  prospectuses  and 
booklets  of  the  school  and  he  was  amusedly  browsing  over 
the  refinements  and  advantages  therein,  not  by  traditions 
but  by  precedents,  set  forth.  "  Mice  and  Mumps,  Ros- 
alie," said  he,  "  they  not  only  do  riding  as  a  regular  thing 
but '  parents  are  permitted,  if  they  wish,  to  stable  a  pupil's 
own  pony  (see  page  26).'  Oh,  thanks,  thanks!  'Mr. 
Harry  Occleve,  barrister-at-law,  availing  himself  of  your 
gracious  permission  on  page  twenty-six,  is  sending  down 
for  his  daughter  a  coach  and  four  with  'ostlers,  grooms, 
coachmen,  and  outriders  complete.'     Ha !  " 

She  was  just  watching  him. 

He  said  after  an  interval :  "  Yes,  there's  a  lot  of  sound 
stuff  here,  Rosalie.  It's  convincing.  Not  that  any  one 
needs  convincing  on  the  point  less  than  you  and  I."  He 
quoted  again.  "  *  And  advance  them  towards  an  inde- 
pendent and  a  womanly  womanhood.'  And  it  talks 
further  back  about  how  '  Idle  women  '  will  soon  be  recog- 


310  THIS  FREEDOM 

nised  as  great  a  term  of  reproach  as  *  an  idle  man.'  It's 
sound.  I  like  this  booklet  here  that  each  girl's  given, 
'  To  the  Girl  of  the  Future.'  It  tells  them  all  about  an 
independent  career,  makes  no  fancy  picture  of  it,  tells  'em 
everything.     Did  you  read  that?  " 

"  A  long  time  ago.  It  probably  doesn't  tell  them  one 
thing." 

"What?" 

"  That  they  can  always  —  chuck  it." 

He  looked  up  quickly.     "  Hull-o !  " 

She  gave  him  no  response  to  his  expressed  surprise  and 
he  laughed  and  said,  "  D'you  know,  Rosalie,  I  don't  be- 
lieve I've  ever  before  heard  you  use  slang." 

"  You  taught  me  that  bit,  Harry." 

"  Oh,  I  sling  it  about.    When  did  I  ?  " 

"  One  day  last  holidays  when  it  was  just  on  a  year 
since  I'd  left  Field's.  Just  a  year,  you  said,  since  I'd  — 
chucked  it.     O  Harry  —  " 

There  was  a  quality  in  her  voice  that  might,  from  what 
she  saw  upon  his  face,  have  been  a  tocsin's  roll.  Flis  face 
was  as  a  place  of  assembly  into  which,  as  it  might  be  a 
people  alarmed,  there  came  crowding  in  emotions. 

He  said,  "What's  up?" 

She  said,  "  O  Harry,  you  look  out  for  yourself !  " 

There  was  much  movement  in  his  face.  "  Look  out  for 
myself?" 

She  said,  "  That  came  out  of  me.  I  didn't  know  I  was 
going  to  say  it.  It's  a  warning.  It  shows  the  fear  I 
have." 

"  Rosalie,  of  what,  of  what?  " 

"  Harry,  for  you." 

"  You're  going  to  say  something  you  think  will  hurt 
me?" 

"  No,  something  you'll  have  to  fight  —  if  you  want  to 


THIS    FREEDOM  311 

fight  it.  Harry,  perhaps  I  can't  go  on  like  this.  I  want 
to  go  back  to  my  work." 

He  expired  a  breath  he  had  been  holding.  "  I  was 
guessing  it." 

"  Before  just  now?  " 

"  No,  while  you've  been  speaking.  Only  now.  I 
asked  you  weeks  ago  if  you  ever  felt  you  regretted  —  " 

She  leant  forward  from  the  couch  whereon  she  sat,  and 
with  an  extended  hand  interrupted  him.  She  said  in- 
tensely, "Look  here,  Harry,  if  it  was  just  regret  I'd  not 
mind  and  I  would  tell  you  No  a  hundred  times,  just  not 
to  disturb  you,  dear.  But  when  you  asked  me  that  you 
spoke,  a  minute  afterwards,  of  my  having  —  chucked  it, 
as  if  it  was  giving  up  sugar  or  stopping  bridge.  Well, 
that's  why  I'm  warning  you  to  look  out  for  yourself. 
Because,  Harry,  I  don't  regret  it.  I'm  craving  to  go  back 
to  it,  craving,  craving,  craving!"  She  stopped.  She 
said,  "  Do  you  want  me  not  to  go  back,  Harry?  " 

He  looked  steadily  at  her.  "  Rosalie,  it  would  be  a 
blow  to  me." 

She  said,  "  Well,  then !  "  and  she  leaned  back  in  the 
couch  as  though  all  now  was  explained. 

He  very  gravely  asked  her,  "  Are  you  going  back,  Rosa- 
lie?" 

"  Would  it  be  a  crime,  Harry,  to  go  back?  " 

He  said  to  her,  "  I  believe  in  my  soul  it  would  be  a 
disaster." 

She  got  up.     "  Come  over  here  to  me,  Harry. 

He  went  to  her  and  took  the  hands  that  she  extended 
to  him.  "  If  you  think  that,  a  disaster,  and  if  to  you  it 
would  be  what  you  said,  a  blow ;  then  that's  what  I  mean 
by  saying,  Harry,  you  look  out  for  yourself.  I  don't 
know  if  I'm  going  back.  I  want  to  go  terribly,  oh,  ter- 
ribly. There  was  a  woman  I  once  knew  told  me  that  if 
a  woman  once  gives  herself  to  a  thing,  abandons  all  else 


312  THIS    FREEDOM 

and  gives  herself  to  it,  she  never  never  can  come  back 
from  it.  '  They  don't  issue  return  tickets  to  women,'  she 
said  to  me.  '  If  you  give  yourself/  she  said,  '  you're  its. 
You  may  think  you  can  get  away  but  you  never  will  get 
away.  You're  its.'  She  was  right,  Harry.  I  beHeve  I've 
got  to  go  back.  If  you  don't  want  me  to,  well,  you  look 
out  for  yourself."  She  drew  herself  towards  him  by  her 
hands.  "  Harry,  when  I  went  down  to  Field's  with  the 
children  that  day  last  holidays  I  took  them  to  be  a  body- 
guard to  me,  to  prevent  me  from  being  captured.  When 
they  left  me  there  alone  for  a  few  minutes  I  turned  away 
and  wrung  my  hands  because  I  knew  I  was  going  to  be 
terribly  tempted.  I  am  terribly  tempted.  I'm  being 
dragged."  She  w^ent  into  his  arms.  "  Harry,  hold  me 
terribly  tight  and  say  you  don't  want  me  to  go  back." 

He  most  tenderly  embraced  her.  "  Don't  go  back, 
Rosalie." 

She  disengaged  herself,  and  made  a  sound,  "  Ah !  "  as 
if,  while  he  had  held  her  body,  herself  had  held  the  fort 
of  her  solicitude  for  his  desires  against  the  horde  of  her 
own  cravings  that  swarmed  about  its  walls. 

How  long? 

There  was  a  mirage  in  her  face.  While  Easter  came 
and  Doda,  in  huge  spirits,  made  her  start  at  school,  and 
Huggo,  boisterously  elated,  his  start  at  Tidborough,  and 
Benji,  much  dejected  at  Doda's  going,  his  start  at  Huggo's 
former  day  school ;  and  while  the  long  summer  term  and 
the  holidays  passed  on,  there  was  never  again  seen  nor 
heard  by  Harry  the  tenderness  that  had  been  in  her  face 
and  in  her  voice  when  she  had  warned  him,  "  Well,  Harry, 
you  look  out  for  yourself,"  and  when  she  had  asked  him, 
"  Harry,  hold  me  terribly  tight  in  your  arms  and  say  you 
do  not  want  me  to  go  back."  There  thenceforward  did 
fill  up  her  countenance  the  boy,  mutinous  and  defiant,  that 
was  her  other  self.     It  was  almost  upon  the  morrow  of 


THIS  FREEDOM  313 

that  passage  with  him  (whose  poignancy  the  written  word 
has  failed  to  show)  that  she  had  a  revulsion  from  the 
attitude  she  had  then  exposed  to  him.  Avid  now  to  go 
back  to  the  life  she  had  abandoned,  she  was  ferocious  to 
herself  when  she  remembered  she  had  asked  him,  "  Would 
it  be  a  crime,  Harry,  to  go  back?  "'  A  crime!  "Hor- 
rible traitor  to  myself  that  I  was  "  (her  thoughts  would 
go)  "to  question  it  a  crime  just  to  take  up  my  life  again  I 
A  crime !  Horrible  fool  that  I  was  to  be  able,  with  no 
sense  of  humour,  to  give  to  so  natural  a  desire  an  epithet 
so  ludicrous  as  crime!    A  crime!    A  right,  a  right!  " 

Worst  of  all,  she  had  invited,  she  had  implored,  Harry 
when  her  longings  were  manifest  to  reason  with  her.  Her 
longings  now  always  were  manifest ;  but  when  he  reasoned 
with  her  it  was  out  of  the  scorpions  of  her  revulsion  that 
she  answered  him. 

He  once  said,  "  It  appears  to  me  that  your  attitude  is 
changed  from  the  night  you  first  mentioned  this." 

She  said,  "  Harry,  what's  disturbing  me  when  we  talk 
about  it  is  not  my  own  case,  it's  the  general  case.  Here's 
a  woman  —  never  mind  that  it's  me  —  here's  a  woman 
that  has  made  a  success  in  life,  that  has  abandoned  it  and 
that  wants  to  go  back  to  it.  You  argue  she  mustn't.  I 
could  say  it's  monstrous.  I  don't  say  that.  I  choose  to 
say  it's  pitiful.  If  it  was  a  man  he'd  go.  He  wouldn't 
think  twice  about  it.  And  if  he  did  think  twice  about  it 
every  opinion  and  every  custom  that  he  consulted  would 
tell  him  he  was  right  to  go.  It  happens  to  be  a  woman, 
therefore  —  well,  that's  the  reason !  It's  a  woman  — 
therefore,  No.  That's  the  beginning  of  the  reason  and 
the  end  of  the  reason.  A  woman  —  therefore,  No.  Oh, 
it's  pitiful —  for  women.'' 

Harry  questioned :  "  Every  opinion  and  every  custom- 
would  tell  a  man  to  go?  No,  no.  You're  taking  too  much 
for  granted,  Rosalie.     He  wouldn't  go,  necessarily,  and 


314  THIS  FREEDOM 

he  wouldn't  be  advised  to  go,  if  he  had  duties  that  pulled 
him  the  other  way.'' 

She  gave  a  note  of  amusement.  "  But  that's  the  point. 
He  never  zvoidd  have  such  duties.  It's  notable  that  a 
man  always  makes  his  duties  and  his  ambitions  go  hand 
in  hand.    Yes,  it's  notable,  that." 

"  Well,  put  it  another  way.  Suppose  it  wasn't  neces- 
sary for  him  to  go.  .  .  .  Suppose  nothing  depended 
on  his  going,  much  on  his  staying.  That  makes  the 
parallel,  Rosalie." 

She  said  to  him,  "  Ah,  I'll  agree  to  that.  Let  that 
make  the  parallel.  They'd  tell  a  man  in  such  a  case, 
'  Man,  take  up  your  ambitions.  You  are  a  man.  You 
have  yourself  to  think  of.'  That's  what  they'd  say.  Well, 
that's  what  I'm  saying.  '  I  am  a  woman.  I  have  myself 
to  think  of.'  " 

He  asked,  "  And  shall  you,  Rosalie  ?  " 

She  said,  "  I'm  thinking  —  every  day." 

The  more  she  thought  the  more  she  stififened.  This 
was  the  thought  against  whose  goad  she  always  came  — 
Why  should  she  be  hesitant  ?  What  a  position !  What  a 
light  upon  the  case  and  upon  the  status  of  woman  that, 
just  because  she  was  a  woman,  she  must  not  consider  her 
own,  her  personal  interests!  For  no  other  reason;  just 
that ;  because  she  was  a  woman  1 

"  I've  shut  a  gate  behind  me,"  she  on  another  day  said 
to  Harry.  "  That's  what  I've  done.  I've  come  out  of  a 
place  and  shut  the  gate  behind  me  and  because  I  am  a 
woman  I  mustn't  open  it  and  go  back.  That's  what  a 
woman's  life  is  —  always  shutting  gates  behind  her. 
There  aren't  gates  for  a  man.  There're  just  turnstiles. 
As  he  came  out  so  he  can  always  go  back  —  even  to  his 
youth.  When  he's  fifty  he  still  can  go  back  and  have  the 
society  of  twenty  and  play  the  fool  as  he  did  at  twenty. 
Can  a  woman?  " 


THIS  FREEDOM  315 

"  That's  physical,"  said  Harry.  "  A  man  much  longer 
keeps  his  youth."' 

She  said  then  the  first  aggressively  bitter  thing  he  ever 
had  heard  her  say.  "  Ah,  keeps  his  youth !  "  she  said. 
"  So  does  a  dog  that's  run  free.  It's  the  chain  and  ken- 
nel sort  that  age." 

She  hardened  her  heart. 

She  looked  back  upon  the  days  when  she  had  discovered 
for  herself  the  difference  between  sentiment  and  sense, 
between  sentimentality  and  sensibility.  She  then  had  made 
her  life,  and  therefore  then  her  happiness,  by  putting 
away  sentiment  and  using  sense  for  spectacles.  She  told 
herself  she  now  was  ruining  her  life,  and  certainly  letting 
go  her  happiness,  by  suffering  herself  to  bear  the  senti- 
mental handicap. 

The  summer  holidays  came.  It  had  been  her  obvious 
argument  to  Harry  that,  now  the  elder  children  were  at 
school,  and  Benji  soon  to  be  the  same,  that  reason  for  her 
constant  presence  in  the  home  no  longer  was  advanceable. 
It  had  been  Harry's  argument  to  her  that  there  were  the 
holidays  to  remember.  The  holidays  came.  Huggo 
wrote  that  he  wanted  to  go  straight  from  school  to  a 
topping  time  in  Scotland  to  which  he  had  been  invited 
by  a  chum ;  when  that  was  over  he  had  promised,  and  he 
was  sure  he  would  be  allowed,  to  have  the  last  three  weeks 
with  another  friend  whose  people  had  a  ripping  place  in 
Yorkshire.  Doda  came  home  and  Doda's  first  excitement 
was  that  nothing  arranged  might  interfere  with  an  invita- 
tion from  mid-August  to  a  schoolfellow  whose  family 
were  going  to  Brittany.  So  much  for  her  holiday  neces- 
sity !  Rosalie  thought.  So  much  for  Harry's  idea  of  how 
the  children  would  naturally  long  to  spend  the  vacation 
all  together !  Doda  did  not  seem  to  have  a  thought  for 
Huggo,  nor  Huggo  a  thought   for  when  he  should  see 


316  THIS  FREEDOM 

Doda.  Neither  of  them,  she  could  not  help  noticing,  had 
the  faintest  concern  to  be  with  Benji.  She  and  Harry  with 
Benji  went  down  to  a  furnished  house  in  Devonshire,  and 
the  other  two,  their  plans  in  part  curtailed,  were  brought 
to  join  them.  It  was  jolly  enough.  It  would  have  been 
more  truly  jolly,  she  used  to  think,  if  Doda  had  not 
largely  divided  her  time  between  writing  to  apparently 
innumerable  school  friends  and  counting  the  days  to 
when  she  might  be  released  for  the  Brittany  expedition; 
and  if  Huggo  had  not  for  the  first  few  days  openly  sulked 
at  the  veto  on  the  Yorkshire  invitation.  How  independent 
they  were,  how  absorbed  in  their  friends,  how  —  differ- 
ent! 

She  hardened  her  heart. 

The  reopening  of  the  schools  drew  on  and  return  was 
made  to  London.  Huggo  and  Doda  were  made  ready  for 
school  and  returned  to  school.  The  Law  Courts  re- 
opened and  Harry  took  up  again  his  work.  October! 
You  could  not  take  up  a  paper  without  reading  of  the 
inauguration  of  the  new  Sessions  at  all  the  universities 
and  seats  of  education.  October!  The  newspapers  that 
for  months  had  been  padding  out  vapid  nothings  became 
intense  with  the  activities  of  a  nation  back  to  the  collar. 
October  !  The  first  brisk  breath  of  winter  in  the  air  !  She 
could  not  stand  this !    Could  not,  could  not ! 

She  said  suddenly  one  evening :  "  Harry,  I  was  down 
at  Field's  to-day.     They  want  me.'' 

Ever  since,  by  that  simile  of  hers  of  the  dog  chained 
and  kenneled,  she  had  put  a  bitter  note  into  this  matter 
Ijetween  them,  he  had  by  this  means  or  by  that  con- 
tributed no  share  to  it  when  she  had  presented  it.  He 
once  had  referred  to  the  dog  incident.  "  I  can't  talk  to 
you  when  you  talk  like  that,  old  girl,"  he  had  said.  "  That's 
not  us.  We  don't  talk  like  that.  You  know  how  I  feel 
about  this  matter.    Talking  only  vexes  it." 


THIS  FREEDOM  317 

"Harry,  I  was  down  at  Field's  to-day.  They  want 
me."    It  was  now  to  be  faced. 

He  put  down  the  paper  he  had  been  reading  and  began 
to  fill  his  pipe.  "  This  wants  a  smoke,"  he  said  and 
smiled  at  her;  and  he  then  told  her  that  which  the  level 
quality  of  her  voice,  a  note  from  end  to  end  of  purpose, 
had  informed  him.  "  I  think  we're  getting  to  the  end  of 
this  business,''  he  said. 

Her  voice  maintained  its  quality.  "  Yes,  near  the  end, 
Harry." 

"  Field's  w^ant  you.     What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Going  back." 

"  I  want  you." 

"  I'm  not  leaving  you.  I  am  with  you,  as  I  came  to 
you !  " 

"  The  children  want  you." 

"  I  am  not  leaving  the  children." 

"  It's  a  question  of  home,  Rosalie.  It's  the  home  wants 
you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

"  Going  back." 

"  You've  thought  of  everything?  " 

"  Everything." 

"The  children?" 

"  Harry,  the  children  don't  want  me  in  the  way  that 
children  used  to  want  their  mothers  when  I  was  a  child. 
They  don't  display  the  same  affection,  not  in  the  same 
way,  that  we  used  to.  I  wish  they  did.  I  came  back  for 
it.  It  wasn't  there.  They're  darlings,  but  they're  self- 
reliant  darlings,  self-assured,  self-interested." 

"They've  a  right  to  a  home,  Rosalie."  He  paused. 
"  And,  Rosalie,  I  have  a  right  to  a  home.'' 

She  said,  "  Have  I  no  rights?  " 


318  THIS  FREEDOM 

"  There  are  certain  things  — "  he  slowly  said  and 
paused  again  —  "  established," 

She  said  quickly,  "  Yes,  men  think  that.  They  always 
have.    Well,  I  believe  that  nothing  is." 

He  looked  steadily  before  him.  "  H  it's  not  established 
that  woman's  part  is  the  home  part;  if  that  is  going  to 
change,  I  wonder  what's  going  to  happen  to  the  world  ?  " 

She  said,  "  Men  always  do.  They  always  have  — 
wondered,  and  the  future  always  has  changed  right  out 
of  their  wondering.  I  beliv  ve  that  the  future  is  with 
woman,  I  believe  that  as  empires  have  passed,  Rome, 
Greece,  Carthage,  that  seemed  to  their  rulers  the  pillars 
of  the  world,  so  w^ill  pass  man's  dominion.  Woman's 
revolt  —  it's  no  use  talking  of  it  as  that,  as  a  revolt. 
Women  aren't  and  never  will  be  banded.  They're  like 
the  Jews.  They're  everywhere  but  nowhere.  But  the 
Jews  have  had  their  day ;  woman  —  not  yet.  They  work, 
not  banded,  but  in  single  spies.  In  every  generation  more 
single  spies  and  more  single  spies.  In  time.  ...  In 
every  generation  man's  dominion,  by  like  degree,  de- 
creased, decreased.  In  time,  .  .  .  I'm  one  of  this  day's 
single  spies,  Harry." 

He  said  with  a  sudden  animation,  "  Look  here,  let's 
take  it  on  that  level,  Rosalie.  In  your  case  what's  the 
need?  Call  it  dominion.  I've  never  exercised  nor 
thought  to  exercise  dominion  over  you." 

"  But  you've  not  understood,  Harry.  I  gave  up  what 
was  my  life  to  me.  To  you  I'd  only  —  chucked  it.  Oh, 
but  that  hurt!  That  man's  supreme  indifference,  that  is 
dominion," 

He  said,  "  I'll  know  it,  dearest,  for  your  sacrifice," 

She  put  out  a  hand  as  if  to  hold  that  word  away.  "  Oh, 
trust  not  that.  They  talk  of  the  ennoblement  of  sacrifice. 
Ah,  do  not  believe  it.  It  can  go  too  long,  too  far,  and 
then  like  wine  too  long  matured  .   .  .  just  acid,  Harry. 


THIS  FREEDOM  319 

I  never  said  a  bitter  thing  to  you  until  —  thus  sacrificing. 
It  is  the  kennel  dog  again.  If  I  went  on  I'd  grow  more 
bitter  yet,  more  bitter  and  more  bitter.  It's  why  women 
are  so  much  more  bitter  than  men.  It's  what  they've  sacri- 
ficed. I'm  going  back,  Harry.  I've  got  to.  You  ask  me 
if  I've  thought  of  everything.  I  have;  but  even  if  I  had 
not  this  outrides  it  all.  I  have  gone  too  far.  She  was 
right,  that  woman  I  told  you  of,  who  said  that  for  a 
woman,  once  she  has  given  herself  to  a  thing,  there  is  no 
comeback  from  it.     I  have  tried.     It  is  not  to  be  done." 

There  was  a  very  long  silence.  She  said,  "  It's  set- 
tled, Harry." 

He  said,  "  Nothing's  been  said,  Rosalie,  that  gets  over 
what  I  have  said.  There's  no  home  here  while  both  of  us 
are  working.  I  have  a  right  to  a  home.  The  children 
have  a  right  to  a  home.    Nothing  gets  over  that.'' 

She  answered,  "  Then,  Harry,  give  yourself  a  home. 
Give  the  children  a  home." 

He  said,  "  I  am  a  man." 

She  answered,  "  I  am  a  woman." 


CHAPTER  III 

The  thing  goes  now  at  a  most  frightful  pace  for 
RosaHe.  One  hates  the  slow,  laborious  written  word 
that  tries  to  show  it.  There  needs  a  pen  with  wings  or 
that  by  leaping  violence  of  script,  by  characters  blotched, 
huge  and  run  together,  would  symbolise  the  pace  at  which 
the  thing  now  goes.  There's  no  procession  of  the  days. 
Immersed  in  work  or  lost  in  pleasure,  there  never  is  pro- 
cession of  the  days,  so  hurtling  fast  goes  life.  They 
crowd.  They're  driven  past  like  snow  across  a  window 
pane.  The  calendar  astounds.  It  is  the  first  of  the  month, 
and  lo,  it  is  the  tenth.  It's  the  sixteenth  —  half  gone !  — 
wdiile  yet  it  scarcely  had  begun ;  a  day  after  the  twentieth 
is  the  date;  it's  next  the  twenty-fifth;  it's  next  —  the 
month  has  gone.  .  .  .  The  month !  It  is  a  season  that 
has  flown.  Here's  Summer  where  only  yesterday  the 
buds  of  Spring;  here's  Winter,  coming  —  gone!  —  while 
yet  the  leaves  seem  falling. 

It  was  like  that  the  thing;  now  went  with  Rosalie. 

They  call  it  a  race.  It  isn't  a  race,  living  like  that.  It's 
a  pursuit.  Engaged  in  it,  you're  not  in  rivalry,  you  are 
in  flight.  You're  fleeing  all  the  time  the  reckoning;  and 
he's  a  sulky  savage,  forced  to  halt  to  gather  up  what  you 
have  shed,  ordered  to  pause  to  note  the  things  that  you 
have  missed,  and  at  each  duty  cutting  notches  in  a  stick. 

That  is  his  tally  which,  come  up,  he  will  present  to  you. 

Well,  l)est  perhaps  to  take  that  tally  stick  to  try  by  it 
to  show  the  pace  at  which  the  thing  now  went.  Rosalie, 
when  all  was  done,  could  run  the  tally  over  (you  have  to) 
in  thought,  that  lightning  vehicle  that  makes  to  crawl  the 


THIS  FREEDOM  321 

swiftest  agency  of  man's  invention :  runs  through  a  life- 
time while  the  electric  telegraph  is  stammering  a  line; 
reads  memory  in  twenty  volumes  between  the  whilt  and 
passing  of  some  remembered  scent  that's  opened  them; 
travels  a  life  again,  cradle  to  grave,  between  the  vision's 
lighting  on  and  lifting  from  some  token  of  the  past. 

All's  done;  some  years  rush  on;  she  sits  in  retrospec- 
tion, that  tally  stick  in  hand ;  and  thought,  first  hovering, 
would  always  start  for  her  from  when,  returned  to  her 
career,  the  thing  at  frightful  pace  began  to  go ;  and  then, 
from  there,  away!  from  scene  to  scene  (the  notches  cut 
by  reckoning  in  his  stick)  rending  the  womb  of  memory 
in  dread  delivery,  as  it  were  flash  on  flash  of  lightning 
bursting  the  vault  of  night  from  east  to  west  across  the 
world. 

Her  thoughts  first  hovering :  There's  Huggo  and  there's 
Doda  and  there's  Benji!  Her  children!  Her  darling 
ones !  Her  lovely  ones  !  Love's  crown ;  and,  what  was 
more,  worn  in  the  persons  of  those  darling  joys  of  hers 
in  signal,  almost  arrogant  in  her  disdain  of  precedent  to 
the  contrary,  that  woman  might  be  mother  and  yet  live 
freely  and  unfettered  by  her  home,  precisely  as  man  is 
father  but  follows  a  career.     Ah.   .  .  . 

Away !  The  womb  of  memory  is  rent,  and  rent,  de- 
livers. 

Look,  there  they  are !  She's  down  with  one  or  other 
at  some  gala  at  their  schools.  It's  Founders'  Day  at  Tid- 
borough,  or  it's  at  Doda's  school  on  Prize  Day.  Aren't 
they  just  proud  to  be  with  her  and  show  her  off,  their 
lovely,  brilliant  mother  so  different  from  the  other  rather 
fussy  mothers  that  come  crowding  down!  All  the 
masters  and  all  the  mistresses  know  the  uncommon  woman 
that  she  is.  The  children,  growing  older,  know  it.  "  You 
must  be  very  proud  of  your  mother."     It  has  been  said 


322  THIS  FREEDOM 

(the  self -same  words)  to  each  of  them  by  their  respective 
principals.  Nice !  Nice  to  have  your  children  proud  of 
you! 

Look,  there's  Huggo  telling  her  how  the  headmaster 
had  said  the  thing  to  him  (she's  just  walking  with  her 
Huggo  across  the  cricket  ground  on  Founders'  Day). 
"  And  a  sloppy  young  ass  that  heard  him,"  says  Huggo, 
"  oh,  an  awful  ass,  asked  me  why  the  Head  had  said  I 
must  be  proud  of  you,  and  I  told  him,  and  I  said,  '  I  bet 
you're  not  proud  of  your  mother.'  And  he  said,  '  Of  my 
father,  I  am.  He  got  the  V.  C.  in  South  Africa.'  So  I 
said,  '  Yes,  but  proud  of  your  mother f '  So  this  fright- 
ful ass  said  —  what  do  you  think  he  said?  '  No,  I'm  not 
proud  of  my  mother.  I  don't  think  I'd  want  to  be.  I 
only  love  her,'  " 

Huggo  mimicked  the  voice  in  which  the  frightful  ass 
had  said  this;  and  Rosalie,  at  the  words  and  at  his  tone, 
had  across  her  body  a  sudden  chill,  as  it  were  physical. 
She  wanted  to  say  something.  But  it  was  the  kind  of 
thing  you  couldn't,  somehow,  say  to  Huggo,  at  fifteen. 
But  she  said  it.     "  Huggo,  you  do  love  me,  don't  you?  " 

He  turned  to  her  a  face  curiously  thin-lipped.  "  Oh,  I 
say,  mother,  do  look  out,  some  one  might  hear  you !  " 

Her  Huggo!  (She  wants  to  stop  the  passing  scenes 
and  to  stretch  out  to  him  across  the  years  her  arms.) 
Her  Huggo !  The  one  that  first  along  her  arm  had  laid ; 
the  scrap  that  first  within  her  eyes  adoring  tears  had 
brimmed;  her  baby  boy,  her  tiny  mauling,  her  tiny  hug- 
ging one,  her  first  born!  It  is  in  retrospection  that  she 
sits  and  there's  expelled  for  ever  from  her  face  that 
aspect  mutinous,  intolerant,  defiant,  that  used  to  visit 
there.  That,  when  she  housed  it,  was  the  aspect  of  the 
young  man  Ishmael  whose  hand  was  against  every  man. 
She  is  like  Hagar  now  to  be  imagined,  sitting  over  against 
these  things  a  good  way  off,  as  it  were  a  bowshot. 


THIS  FREEDOM  323 

Strike  on! 

Her  Huggo!  Look,  that's  the  day  they  got  that  bad 
report  of  him  from  school.  She  had  questioned  Harry 
about  a  letter  in  his  post  and,  naming  the  headmaster  of 
Tidborough,  "  Yes,  it's  from  Hammond,"  he  had  an- 
swered her. 

"About  Huggo?" 

"  Yes,  it's  about  Huggo." 

Nothing  more.  They  were  beginning  to  have  ex- 
changes terse  as  that. 

She  said  presently,  "  I  suppose  it  would  interest  me, 
wouldn't  it?" 

His  face  was  very  hard.  "  Do  you  want  to  know  the 
answer  I  feel  like  giving  to  that?  " 

"  I've  asked  for  it,  haven't  I,  Harry?" 

"  You  shall  have  it.  The  answer  is  that  I  think  what 
the  letter  says  implicates  you.'' 

She  preserved  her  composure.  She  by  now  had  had 
practice  in  preserving  her  composure.  "  What's  the 
matter,  Harry?  " 

"  Hammond  says  —  as  good  as  says  —  that  Huggo  will 
have  to  be  withdrawn  from  Tidborough." 

She  knew  perfectly  well  that  this  was  only  leading  up 
to  something.     "  May  I  hear?  " 

"  You  may."  He  took  up  the  letter  and  read  from  it. 
"  *  Apart  from  that,  and  it  would  of  course  be  the  reason 
given  —  the  other,  I  am  confident,  is  susceptible  of 
change  —  apart  from  that,  the  boy  has  now  twice  failed 
to  keep  his  place  in  the  school.  If  he  does  not  get  his 
remove  in  the  coming  term  I  shall  be  compelled  to  ask 
you  to  remove  him.'  "  He  put  down  the  letter  and  looked 
at  her.     "  That'll  be  nice,  won't  it?  " 

She  made  an  appeal.  "  Harry,  don't.  I  mean,  don't 
talk  like  that.    It  won't  happen." 


324  THIS  FREEDOM 

He  softened  in  no  degree.  He  said  sternly:  "  It  will 
happen." 

She  persevered.  "  I'm  quite  sure  it  won't.  You've 
only  got  to  talk  seriously  to  Huggo.  This  coming  holi- 
days you  can  get  him  some  coaching.     He's  got  brains," 

There  was  a  steely  note  in  Harry's  voice :  "  Oh,  he's 
got  brains.  He  can  have  coaching.  It's  what  he  hasn't 
got  and  what  he  can't  get  that's  going  to  get  Huggo 
withdrawn." 

"  What  is  it  you  mean?  " 

"  A  home." 

She  slightly  raised  the  fingers  of  her  hands  and 
dropped  them.     This  subject ! 

Harry  said :  "  Hammond  says  more  than  I've  told 
you." 

"  I  supposed  he  did.  '  Apart  from  that,'  Apart  from 
what?'' 

"  It's  Huggo's  character  he's  writing  to  me  about. 
This  is  what  he  says.  '  The  boy,  though  young,  has  not 
a  good  influence  in  his  house.  If  I  may  suggest  it,  he 
does  not,  during  the  holidays,  see  enough  of  his  home.'  " 

He  folded  the  letter  and  returned  it  to  its  envelope. 
"  Does  it  strike  you  that  is  going  to  be  easy  for  me  to 
answer?  " 

"  It  might  be  easier,  Harry,  if  your  tone  made  it  pos- 
sible for  us  tO'  discuss  it." 

He  gave  a  sound  that  was  glint,  as  it  were,  of  the  blade 
in  his  voice  :  "  Our  discussions !  I  am  a  little  tired  of  that 
blind  alley,  Rosalie." 

She  said  sombrely,  "  And  I." 

"  Will  you  suggest  how  the  letter  is  to  be  answered?  " 

She  said:  "It's  plain.  If  you  agree  with  Mr.  Ham- 
mond, it's  plain.  You  can  say  you  will  stop  Huggo's  in- 
vitations. Harry,  we're  not  by  any  means  the  only  family 
that  doesn't  spend  the  whole  of  its  holidays  together.    It's 


THIS  FREEDOM  325 

rather  the  practice  nowadays,  young  people  visiting  their 
friends.  If  you  think  Huggo  shouldn't  —  you  can  say 
so." 

"  Yes,  I  can  say  that.  Tell  me  this.  Is  it  going  to 
give  him  a  home?  " 

Her  voice  sprung  from  a  sudden  higher  note.  "  Oh, 
you  insist,  you  insist !  "  she  cried.  "You  speak  of  blind 
alleys,  but  you  insist." 

He  touched  the  letter.  "  This  gives  me  ground  for  my 
insistence.  This  is  an  outsider,  a  stranger,  appreciating 
how  w'e  live.  This  is  my  son,  at  my  old  school,  con- 
demned by  how  we  live." 

She  interjected,  "  A  schoolmaster's  primeval  animosity 
—  blame  the  parent." 

"  Rosalie,  a  parent's  primeval  duty.  We  are  responsible 
for  the  children.    We  have  a  duty  towards  them." 

She  softly  struck  her  hands  together.  "  Ah,  how 
often,  how  often,  and  always  worse !  You  said  just  now 
that  I  am  implicated.  It's  always  I.  You  say  we  have  a 
responsibility  towards  the  children.  But  you  don't  mean 
us,  you  mean  me.  Why  I  more  than  you?  Why  am  I 
the  accused  ?  " 

He  began,  "  Because  you  —  " 

"  Ah,  don't,  don't !  " 

But  he  concluded.    "  Because  you  are  a  woman." 

Her  voice  that  had  gone  high  went  numb.  She  made  a 
gesture,  as  to  the  same  reason  and  with  the  same  words 
she'd  made  before,  of  weariness  with  this  thing,  "  Ah,  my 
God,  that  reason !  " 

Strike  on! 

Look,  there's  Huggo,  failing  again  to  get  his  remove, 
superannuated,  withdrawn.  There's  Harry  having  a 
scene  with  the  boy.     There  ought  to  be  tears.     There  are 


326  THIS  FREEDOM 

tears.     But  they're  in  Harry's  voice  and  twice  he  wipes 
his  eyes.     They're  not  in  Huggo's. 

Harry  says  to  Huggo:  "  I  say,  I'm  not  going  to  be 
harsh ;  but,  I  say,  can't  you  understand  the  disgrace ;  can't 
you  understand  the  shame,  old  man?  You've  been  at  the 
finest  school  in  England  and  you've  had  to  leave.  You're 
sixteen.  Old  man,  when  I  was  sixteen  I  got  my  footer 
colours.  I  was  the  youngest  chap  in  the  team.  You're 
sixteen  and  you've  never  even  got  a  house  cap  and  you've 
had  to  leave.  Huggo,  I've  never  missed  going  down  to  a 
Founders'  Day  since  I  went  to  Oxford.  It's  always  been 
the  day  of  the  year  for  me.  I  don't  say  I've  ever  done 
much  in  life,  but  every  time  I've  been  down  to  Founders' 
Day  I've  thought  over,  in  the  train,  any  little  thing  I  may 
have  pulled  out  in  the  year  and  I've  felt,  I've  felt  awfully 
proud  to  be  taking  it  down  to  the  old  school,  so  to  speak. 
Old  chap,  the  proudest,  far  the  proudest  of  all,  was  the 
year  I  went  down  when  first  you  were  there.  I  zvas  proud. 
I'd  given  a  son  to  the  place.  I'd  got  a  boy  there.  An- 
other Occleve  was  going  to  write  the  name  up  on  the 
shields  and  rolls  and  things.  It  was  the  year  Garnett 
first  came  down  as  a  Cabinet  Minister.  Huggo,  I  looked 
old  Garnett  in  the  face  with  a  grin.  Whatever  he'd  done 
I'd  got  this  much  up  on  him  —  he  hadn't  given  a  son  to 
the  place.  He  hadn't  got  a  boy  there.  That's  how  I 
always  felt.  Well,  old  man,  it's  all  over.  I  can't  go  down 
to  Founders'  Day  ever  again.  I've  never  missed.  Now 
—  I've  had  to  withdraw  my  boy.  I  can't  go  again.  I 
couldn't  face  it." 

He  wiped  his  eyes.  No  tears  in  Huggo's  eyes.  On 
Huggo's  face  only  a  look  sullen  and  aggrieved ;  and  sullen 
and  aggrieved  his  mutter,  "  Well,  perhaps  it  was  different 
for  you.    I  couldn't  stick  the  place." 

She  gasped  out,  "  Huggo !  "  but  Harry  had  heard,  and 
Harry,  perhaps  in  ofifset  to  the  emotion  he  had  displayed, 


THIS  FREEDOM  Z27 

smashed  his  hand  down  on  the  table  before  him  and  cried 
out,  "  Well,  keep  your  mouth  shut  about  it  then !  Couldn't 
stick  it !  What  can  you  be  ?  What  can  be  the  matter 
with  you?  Couldn't  stick  it!  Tidborough!  The  finest 
school  in  the  world !    Couldn't  stick  it !  " 

She  interposed,  "Harry,  dear!  Huggo;  Huggo,  tell 
your  father  you  didn't  mean  that." 

Huggo's  mumble:  "I'm  sorry,  father." 

Harry's  deep,  kind  voice :  "I'm  sorry  too,  old  man.  It 
rather  jarred.  Look  here,  this  is  all  over.  It's  just  been 
a  side-slip,  fl've  forgotten  it.  So  has  your  mother.  You 
just  think  over  sometimes  what  I've  said,  my  boy.  We're 
fixing  up  this  tutor's  for  you.  You  start  in  fresh  and  go 
like  steam.  Finest  thing  in  the  world  a  fresh  start.  Makes 
a  side-slip  worth  while.  I'm  going  to  be  —  I  am  — 
prouder  of  you  than  anything  on  earth.  My  eldest  boy! 
Like  steam  from  now,  old  chap,  eh?  " 

Strike  on ! 

After  that  interview  and  when  the  boy  had  left 
the  room  —  shambled  out  of  the  room  in  that  sullen, 
aggrieved  air  he  would  always  assume  under  correction 
—  after  that  she  and  Harry  had  talked,  most  fondly.  It 
was  all,  the  talk,  that  poignantly  affecting  "  fresh  start " 
business  that  he'd  begun  with  Huggo.  Poignantly  affect- 
ing because  Harry,  piling  upon  his  love  for  Huggo  and 
his  pride  in  Huggo,  which  she  shared,  his  love  for  his  old 
school  and  his  pride  in  it,  which  she  could  understand  but 
could  not  share,  had  been  so  bravely,  cheerfully  earnest 
and  assured  about  the  future.  "  One  who  never  turned 
his  back  but  marched  breast  forward."  The  boy  would 
be  all  right.  Mice  and  Mumps,  old  lady,  he'd  be  all  right ! 
It  was  just  a  mistake,  just  a  side-slip.  He'd  got  the 
right  stuff  in  him,  Huggo  had,  eh,  old  lady  ?  They  must 
just  pull  together  to  help  the  boy,  eh? 


328  THIS  FREEDOM 

He  paused  the  tiniest  space  at  that  and  pressed  her 
hand  and  looked  at  her.  She  knew  his  meaning,  li 
only.   .  .   . 

He  went  on :  This  was  a  good  place,  this  tutor's  down 
in  Norfolk  they  were  sending  him  to,  Harry  was  sure  it 
was.  It  was  a  pity,  of  course,  he  couldn't  go  to  another 
public  school ;  but  of  course  he  couldn't ;  they  wouldn't 
take  him ;  no  use  worrying  about  that.  This  tutor,  this 
man  they  were  sending  him  to,  was  a  first-class  chap. 
Only  took  six  pupils.  Was  a  clerg}^man.  Understood 
boys  and  youths  who  hadn't  quite  held  their  own  and 
wanted  special  coaching  and  attention.  Huggo  was  keen 
on  tlie  idea.  After  all,  why  shouldn't  he  have  disliked 
Tidborough?  There  were  such  boys  who  didn't  like 
public-school  life.  There,  there !  Perhaps  it  was  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  happened.  Bet  your  life  this 
was  going  to  be  the  making  of  old  Huggo,  this  change. 
This  tutor  and  the  quiet,  self-reliant  life  there,  each  chap 
with  his  own  jolly  little  bed-sitting  room,  would  prop 
him  up  and  get  him  into  Oxford  when  the  time  came  and 
make  him  no  end  happy  and  splendid. 

"  There,  there,  old  lady,''  said  Harry,  and  patted  her 
and  kissed  her  (she'd  been  affected).  "  There,  there,  it's 
going  to  be  fine.  The  rest  is  just  up  to  us,  eh?  We  know 
che  boy's  weaknesses.  We  know  what  Hammond's  told 
us  about  him  —  home  life  and  home  influences  and  all  that 
stuf¥,  and  that's  easy;  we'll  see  the  boy  gets  that,  won't 
we?" 

She  used  to  wring  her  hands  at  that,  and  crying  "If 
only!"  cry  again  in  desperation  of  excuse:  "  If  only  the 
war  hadn't  come!    If  only  the  war  hadn't  come!  " 

The  war  was  on  then.  It  was  191 5.  "  You  see,''  she 
used  to  appeal  to  the  arbitrament  before  which,  watching 
these  pictures,  she  found  herself,  "  you  see,  the  war  made 


THIS  FREEDOM  329 

everything  so  difficult,  so  impossible,  so  frightful,  so  con- 
fused, so  blinding.  Sturgiss  had  left  the  Bank  to  do  war 
service  in  the  Treasury.  More  than  half  the  clerks  had 
gone.  We  were  understaffed  and  badly  staffed  at  every 
turn.  How  could  I  give  it  up  then  ?  I  don't  say  I  would 
have.  Fm  on  my  knees.  Fve  thrown  in  my  hand.  Fm 
not  pretending  anything  or  anyway  trying  to  delude  my- 
self. I  don't  say  I  would  have  given  it  up  and  come  home 
to  make  home  life  for  the  boy  and  for  them  all.  I  don't 
say  I  would.  Fm  only  saying  how  infinitely  harder,  how 
impossibly  harder,  the  war  conditions  made  it.  There 
was  the  understaffing  —  that  alone.  There  was  the  cry 
about  releasing  a  man  for  the  front  —  that  alone.  I  was 
releasing  half  a  dozen  men.  Field  said  I  was.  I  knew  I 
was.  How  could  I  go  back  and  be  one  of  the  women 
sitting  at  home  ?  That  alone  !  How  could  I  ?  And  there 
was  more  than  that.  It  wasn't  only  the  understaffing.  It 
was  Sturgiss  going.  I'd  been  absorbing  the  banking  bus- 
iness for  years.  It  was  meat  and  drink  to  me.  I'd  had 
a  bent  for  it  ever  since  the  Bagehot  '  Lombard  Street ' 
days.  I'd  nourished  my  bent.  I'd  been  encouraged  to 
nourish  my  bent.  The  work  was  just  a  passion  with  me. 
Sturgiss  went.  I  went  practically  into  his  place.  I'd  a 
position  in  banking  that  no  woman  had  ever  held,  nor  no 
banker  ever  imagined  a  woman  ever  holding,  before.  It 
was  Sturgiss,  a  partner,  I'd  released  for  war  service.  It 
was  Sturgiss's,  a  partner's,  place  I'd  got.  How  could  I 
give  that  up?  How  could  I?  How  could  I?  If  only  the 
war  hadn't  come.  If  only.  .  .  ." 
Strike  on ! 

It  isn't  all  going  as  it  should  with  the  boy  at  the  tutor's. 
But  wasn't  it  impossible  to  observe,  at  the  time,  that  it 
wasn't  all  going  as  it  should?  Of  course  (her  thoughts 
would  go)  it  was  her  fault;  but  was  not  the  world,  spirit- 


330  THIS  FREEDOM 

ual  and  material,  in  conspiracy  against  her,  and  against 
Huggo,  and  against  her  other  darhngs,  to  make  easy  her 
fault?  Ah,  that  war,  that  war!  Didn't  it  unsettle  every- 
body and  everything?  Naturally  it  unsettled  the  boy 
down  at  the  tutor's.  Naturally  one  did  not  notice  or 
foresee  the  trend  of  his  unsettlement.  Naturally  it  made 
plausible  the  excuses  that  he  made. 

There  he  is,  down  there  at  the  tutor's.  He  wanted 
to  do  war  work,  not  sitting  there  grinding  lessons.  All 
the  tutor's  pupils  did.  Naturally  they  did.  The  boy 
couldn't  go  in  the  army.  He  was  too  young.  He  was 
in  a  rural  district.  He  got  doing  land-work.  They  all 
did.  It  was  supposed  to  be  done  in  leisure  hours.  Nat- 
urally it  encroached  on,  and  unfitted  for,  work  hours. 
"  After  all,"  as  the  tutor  wrote,  "  how  can  you  blame 
the  boys?  After  all,  it's  very  hard  to  seem  to  try  to 
check  this  patriotic  spirit."  After  all!  Oh,  why  do  peo- 
ple say  "  after  all  "  when  they  mean  quite  the  contrary? 
This  was  before  all,  this  seductive  escape  from  uncon- 
genial duties,  precedent  of  all,  influencing  to  all  that 
happened  —  after  all.  Naturally  it  interfered  with  scholas- 
tic work.  That  was  condoned.  As  naturally  it  inter- 
fered with  discipline.  That  was  not  mentioned  by  the 
tutor.  If  he  was  cognisant  of  it  was  not  domestic  dis- 
cipline everywhere  relaxed  "on  account  of  the  war"? 

There  Huggo  is.  These  are  his  holidays.  After  the 
setback  at  Tidborough  he  was  to  have  spent  all  his  holi- 
days at  home.  He  was  not,  for  the  future,  to  go  away 
on  invitations.  That  war !  He  never  spent  any  of  his 
holidays  at  home.  How  could  the  boy  be  tied  down 
in  London  with  this  war  on?  He  made  his  land-work 
his  excuse,  most  plausible.  He  spent  all  his  holidays 
with  friends  whose  homes  were  in  rural  districts. 

Then  it  turned  out  that  he  had  not,  as  he  had  given 
out,  been  always  at  the  house  of  friends.     He  was  found 


THIS  FREEDOM  331 

in  cottage  lodgings  living  with  a  friend,  a  fellow-pupil 
at  the  tutor's;  on  land-work  truly,  but  in  gross  deception, 
and  in  worse. 

It  came  out  quite  by  chance  and  in  a  way  very  hor- 
rible. Harry  discovered  it.  Harry,  early  in  191 5,  had 
been  absorbed  into  the  Home  Office.  His  work  was 
very  largely  in  connection  with  a  special  secret  service 
body  dealing  with  spies.  He  examined  in  private  ar- 
rested suspects.  He  advised  and  he  directed  on  criminal 
matters  therewith  connected.  He  was  working,  under 
immense  pressure,  terrible  hours.  He  was  hardly  ever 
in  to  dinner.  He  often  was  away  all  night.  He  frequently 
was  away  travelling  for  days  together.  When  he  was 
seen  he  showed  signs  of  strain  to  Rosalie. 

He  came  in  one  evening  about  nine  o'clock.  It  was 
early  in  1916.  Huggo  was  then  seventeen.  Rosalie 
heard  him  in  the  hall  and  heard  that  some  one  was 
wath  him.  She  heard  him,  by  the  dining-room  door, 
say,  "  You'd  better  go  in  there  and  get  something  to  eat. 
I'll  attend  to  you  presently." 

His  voice  was  iron  hard.  Who  was  with  him?  What 
was  the  matter  ? 

He  came  in  to  her.  His  face  was  iron  hard.  He  shut 
the  door.  "  Do  you  know  who  I've  got  here  with  me? 
Do  you  know  where  I've  been?  Do  you  know  what's 
happened?  " 

His  manner  was  extraordinary.  His  voice  was  like 
heavy  axes,  thudding.  His  face  was  dark  and  pas- 
sionate, menacing.  Happened?  Things  were  always 
happening  in  these  appalling  days.  She  said,  "  Oh,  what 
is  it,  Harry?  " 

*'  It's  Huggo." 

"Huggo?" 

"Huggo!" 

Like  axes!     It  seemed  that,  of  his  passion   (and  she 


2>2>2  THIS  FREEDOM 

never  before  had  seen  passion  in  his  face),  he  scarcely 
could  speak.  He  fought  for  words.  When  they  came 
out  they  thudded  out. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Huggo's  been  this  past  month?  " 

"  With  the  Thorntons,  his   friends." 

"  He's  not.  He's  lied.  He's  been  living  with  some 
blackguard  friend  in  rooms  in  Turnhampton,  in  Bucking- 
hamshire." 

"Harry!    Doing  what?    Land-work?" 

"  Land-work  !     Loafing !     Drinking !  " 

"Drinking?    Huggo?" 

"  Listen  to  me.  This  is  what  Eve  come  to.  This  is 
what  that  boy's  come  to.  I  had  to  go  down  to  this 
place  Turnhampton  about  a  spy  they'd  arrested.  He  was 
to  come  up  in  the  police  court  there  this  morning.  They 
took  the  other  cases  first.  Court  going  to  be  cleared  for 
mv  man.  I  sat  there,  waiting.  The  second  case  —  this 
is  what  Eve  come  to  —  was  my  son,  my  boy,  Huggo, 
brought  up  from  the  cells  where  he'd  spent  the  night. 
My  son !  Drunk  and  disorderly.  He  didn't  see  me.  The 
police  gave  him  a  character.  I  sat  there  and  listened  to  it. 
My  son !  A  visitor,  the  police  described  him.  Sup- 
posed to  be  working  on  some  farm.  Not  a  desirable  char- 
acter in  the  village.  My  son!  Always  loafing  about. 
Always  in  the  inn.  Last  night  drunk.  Assaulted  the 
landlady.     My  son !    Arrested.    My  son !  " 

He  turned  away. 

She  cried,  "  Harry!    What  happened?  " 

He  turned  on  her  in  a  violence  renewed.  "  I  declare 
to  you  that  if  he  had  gone  to  prison  I  would  not  have 
raised  a  hand  to  stop  him.  He'd  had  the  grace  —  or  he'd 
all  the  time  had  the  guile  —  to  give  an  assumed  name. 
Would  I  have  confessed,  to  save  him,  that  he  was  my 
son?  I  believe  I  couldn't.  He  got  off  with  a  fine.  I 
got  hold  of  him.     Eve  brought  him  back.     He's  here." 


THIS  FREEDOM  335 

She  went  to  the  bell.    "  I  must  get  you  some  food." 

He  stayed  her.  "  Food!  I'll  tell  you  what  to  get  me. 
I'll  tell  you  what  to  get  that  boy.  Get  me  a  home. 
Get  him  a  home.  That's  what's  caused  this.  Do  you 
know  what  he  said  to  me  coming  up  in  the  train?  I  said 
to  him,  'Why  are  you  always  away  like  this?  Why, 
in  the  holidays,  are  you  never  at  home  ?  '  He  said,  '  What 
home  is  there  for  me  to  come  to?  Who's  ever  there?  ' 
He's  right.    Who  is?    Are  you?" 

She  said  quietly,  "  Harry,  not  now.  Dear,  you  are  not 
yourself." 

He  was  not  and  continued  not  to  be.  "  Well,  answer 
my  question.    Are  you  ever  in  the  home?  " 

She  implored,  "  Oh,  my  dear!  " 

He  was  not  to  be  placated.    "  Where  is  the  home  ?  " 

"Harr>^!" 

"  Where's  Doda?" 

She  began  in  her  spirit  to  move.  "  Staying  with 
friends." 

"Where's  Benji?" 

"  You  perfectly  well  know.     Staying  with  friends." 

"  Where  are  you?  " 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom.  "  Oh,  beware  me, 
Harry.     Here." 

"  For  the  night.  Are  you  ever  in  the  children's 
home?" 

"Are  you?" 

"  That  sophistry!     I  have  my  work!  " 

"  I've  mine." 

He  smote  his  hand  upon  the  mantelshelf  by  which  he 
stood  and  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Strike  on ! 

Of  course  it  healed  and  was  obliterated  and  all  passed 
over.     Of  course  Harry  forgave  the  boy.     Of  course  he 


334  THIS  FREEDOM 

was  handsome  to  the  boy's  excuses.  Drunk !  Of  course 
it  was  just  a  shghtly  tipsy  ebulhtion.  Had  been  in  the 
hot  sun  in  the  fields  all  day  and  was  affected  by  a  too 
long  slake  of  beer.  Assaulted  the  landlady!  She'd  been 
rough  mannered  and  objected  to  his  noise  and  got  in 
the  way  and  he  had  pushed  her.  "  The  boy's  all  right," 
Harry  said  to  Rosalie  after,  the  boy  forgiven,  he  sat 
and  talked  with  her.  "  He's  got  no  vice.  How  could  he 
have?  It  was  wrong,  it  was  deceitful,  going  off  like 
that  to  that  place  without  telling  us.  But  he  meant  no 
harm.  He's  explained.  He's  genuinely  sorry.  He's 
just  got  out  of  hand  a  bit.  They  all  have,  the  young 
people,  in  this  war  time.  The  boy's  all  right.  He's  eigh- 
teen in  a  few  months.  I'll  see  if  I  can  speed  it  up  a  bit 
getting  him  into  the  army.  He's  magnificently  keen. 
He'll  do  fine,  God  bless  him.  Think  no  more  about  it, 
old  lady.  In  the  whole  business  I'm  only  sick  with  my- 
self that  I  lost  my  temper  with  him  as  I  did  —  and  with 
you,  my  dear,  and  with  you."  And  he  put  out  his  hand 
to  her. 

"  One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast 
forward." 

"  And  with  you."  Of  course  he  was  distressed  he  had 
betn  violent  with  her.  Of  course  that  painful  outbreak 
was  healed,  obliterated,  put  away.  He  had  expressed 
his  utter  regret.  He'd  been  badly  rattled  with  this  in- 
fernal war  all  that  week;  this  business  on  the  top  of  it 
had  been  a  most  frightful  shock  to  him.  What  had  he 
said?  Forgive,  Rosalie,  forgive!  Of  course  she  had 
nothing  to  forgive.  Forgiveness  also  was  for  her  to 
ask.  As  to  the  point  thus  violently  raised,  he  saw,  didn't 
he,  the  clear  impossibility  of  her  giving  up  her  work,  war 
work  as  much  as  his  own,  at  such  a  time?  Not  to  say 
the  unnecessity  of  it  —  the  children  were  growing  up  .  .  . 
it  clearly  could  be  done  now.    The  position  she  held  .   .   . 


THIS  FREEDOM  335 

He  said,  "I  know,  old  lady."  He  said,  "  I  know,  I 
know,"    and    sighed. 

Ah,  from  that  vision  of  him  saying,  "  I  know,"  and 
sighing,  and  from  the  mute  appeal  that  then  was  in  his 
eyes,    from  that — strike   on  ! 

Most  retentive  to  her,  as  it  had  passed,  of  Huggo's 
share  in  all  that  episode  had  been  that  she  from  her  ex- 
postulation with  Huggo  had  not  come  away  with  the  same 
satisfaction  as  seemingly  had  Harry.  She  put  before  the 
boy  how  terribly  his  father  had  felt  the  shame  of  it,  how 
almost  broken-hearted  he  had  been.  "  He  idolises  you, 
Huggo.  You're  always  his  eldest  son.  He  thinks  the 
world  of  you." 

Huggo  took  it  all  with  that  familiar  air  of  his  of 
being  the  party  that  was  aggrieved.  He  listened  with  im- 
patience that  was  not  concealed  and  he  had  no  con- 
trition to  display.  "  Well,  mother,  it's  all  over.  What  is 
the  good  of  going  on  and  on  about  it?  I've  had  it  by 
the  hour  from  father.  He's  understood.  What  is  the 
good?" 

She  very  lovingly  talked  to  him.  He  all  the  time  had 
an  argument.  He  kept  up  his  own  case.  He  presently 
said,  "  And  I  do  wish,  mother,  especially  now  I'm  going 
into  the  army  soon,  I  do  wish  you'd  drop  that  '  Huggo.' 
You  can't  tell  how  I  hate  it.  You  might  just  as  well 
call  me  Baby.     It's  a  baby's  name." 

"  Oh,  Huggo,  it  was  the  name  we  loved  you  by." 

"  Well,  I  can't  stick  it.     My  name's  Hugh." 

Strike  on ! 

There  he  is.  He's  in  the  army.  He's  utterly  splendid 
in  his  uniform.  How  proud  of  him  she  is !  They  no 
longer  gave  commissions  direct  from  civil  life ;  but  he'd 
been  in  the  cadet  corps  at  Tidborough  and  Harry  was 
able  to  get  him  direct  into  an  officer  cadet  battalion.    He's 


336  THIS  FREEDOM 

off  to  France  in  what  seems  next  to  no  time.  He's  home 
on  leave  and  there's  nothing  that's  too  good  for  him 
and  her  purse  at  his  disposal  when  he's  run  through 
Harry's  generous  allowance.  He  seems  to  get  through  an 
immense  amount  of  money  on  leave.  He's  never  at  home. 
He's  often  out  all  night.  Well,  he's  on  leave.  He's  fight- 
ing for  his  country.  You  can't  be  anything  but  utterly 
lenient  with  a  boy  that's  fighting  for  his  country.  He 
went  back.  Three  days  after  he  was  supposed  to  have 
gone  back  Rosalie  came  face  to  face  with  him  in  Piccadilly. 
He  was  with  some  flapper  type  of  girl,  in  the  detestable 
phrase  (as  she  thought  it)  by  which  the  detestable  prod- 
ucts of  the  war  (as  she  thought  them)  were  called.  He 
was  just  getting  into  a  cab.  She  called  out  to  him, 
astounded.  She  heard  him  swear  and  he  jumped  into  the 
cab  and  was  driven  away.  She  didn't  tell  Harry.  Harry 
found  out.  It  came  out  that  the  boy  for  overstaying  his 
leave  was  to  be  court-martialled.  She  did  not  know  what 
Harry  did.  She  noticed  in  those  days  what  a  beaten  look 
Harry's  face  was  getting.  It  was,  of  course,  the  war 
strain ;  but  it  only  was  first  evident  to  her  in  that  time 
of  the  court-martial.  He  scarcely  spoke  to  her.  She  did 
not  know  wdiat  he  did.  but  she  knew  he  had  much  in- 
fluence and  exerted  it  at  no  sparing  of  himself.  The  boy 
got  off  with  a  severe  reprimand  and  was  returned  to 
France.  And  to  be  in  France,  out  there,  in  that  ever- 
present  shadow  of  death,  was  to  be  excused  everything 
and  to  be  forgiven  everything. 

Miraculously  the  war  ended.  The  boy  had  had 
rather  more  than  two  years  of  it.  He  applied  for 
immediate  demobilisation  as  being  a  student,  and  he  was 
one  of  the  batch  that  got  away  immediately  on  that 
ground.  He  w^as  nearly  twenty  then.  Now  what  was  he 
going  to  do?  Oxford,  of  course,  Harry  said,  and  then 
the  Bar,  as  always  intended.     Huggo,  larking  about  in 


THIS  FREEDOM  337 

uniform  long  after  he  ought  to  have  been  out  of  it, 
was  in  immense  feather  with  himself.  He  didn't  say 
No  and  he  didn't  say  Yes  to  the  Oxford  idea.  All 
he  said  was  that  he  voted  all  that  wasn't  discussed  the 
very  day  he  got  back  (it  was  more  than  six  weeks 
since  he  had  got  back).  He  surely,  he  said,  was  entitled 
to  a  bit  of  a  holiday  first,  after  all  he  had  been  through. 
London  seemed  to  be  swarming  with  thousands  of  young 
men  who  claimed  they  were  entitled  to  a  bit  of  a  holiday 
first  after  all  they  had  been  through.  Huggo  was  never 
in  the  house.  He  had  picked  up  with  a  man,  Telfer, 
whom  he  had  met  in  France,  a  big  business  man,  Huggo 
described  him  as,  and  he  seemed  to  spend  all  his  time 
with  this  man.  Telfer  was  a  much  older  man  than  Huggo. 
Huggo  brought  him  to  dinner  one  night.  It  was  rather 
a  shock  to  Rosalie,  meeting  the  man  of  whom  she  had 
heard  so  much.  Huggo  had  never  said  anything  alxDut 
his  age.  He  must  have  been  quite  forty.  He  had  dull, 
cloudy  eyes  and  a  bad  mouth.  He  called  Huggo  "  Kid," 
using  the  word  in  every  sentence,  and  it  was  easy  to  see 
from  Harry's  manner  that  Telfer  was  repellent  to  him. 
Easy,  also,  and  not  nice,  to  see  Telfer's  dominion  over 
Huggo.  Not  nice  to  hear  Huggo's  loud,  delighted  laugh- 
ter at  everything  addressed  to  him  by  Telfer.  Harry 
spoke  less  and  less  as  the  meal  advanced.  The  two  left 
early ;  they  were  going  to  a  music  hall.  When  they  had 
gone  Rosalie  and  Harry  looked  at  one  another  across 
the  table  and  by  their  look  enchanged  a  great  deal. 

"  That's  a  detestable  companion  for  Huggo,"  Harry 
said.  "  Rosalie,  there's  been  enough  of  this.  The  boy 
must  get  to  work." 

It  appeared,  in  interviews  following  that  evening,  that 
Huggo  was  not  a  bit  keen  on  the  Oxford  idea.  He 
wanted  to  go  into  business.  He  was  not  clear  as  to  pre- 
cisely what  kind  of  business,  but  he  wanted  the  freedom 


338  THIS  FREEDOM 

and  the  excitement  of  earning  his  own  living,  not  to  be 
cooped  up  at  the  'Varsity  "  Uke  back  at  school  again." 
Harry  took  a  firm  line.  The  boy  resented  the  firm  line. 
Well,  anyway,  he  argued,  he  couldn't  go  till  October,  it 
was  only  June  now;  all  right,  he'd  go  in  October  —  if  he 
had  to.  Harry  made  arrangements  for  some  reading 
through  the  summer  preparatory  to  Oxford.  It  upset 
plans  made  by  Huggo.  He  thought  it  "  uncommonly 
hard  "  that  he  should  have  to  spend  the  whole  summer 
"  swotting."  Oh,  well,  if  he  had  to,  he  had  to.  He  had  an 
invitation  for  a  month  for  that  immediate  time  to  Scot- 
land. The  reading  was  arranged  to  start  a  month  ahead. 
He  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  be  out  of  London  just 
when  there  was  so  much  going  on  and  all  his  pals  here; 
but  anything  was  better  than  sticking  this  kind  of  life 
at  home,  father  always  at  him;  so  he'd  go  to  Scotland; 
he  supposed  he  was  entitled  to  a  bit  of  country  holiday 
before  they  cooped  him  up?    He  went  to  Scotland. 

Twice  during  that  month  Rosalie  thought  she  saw 
Huggo  in  the  West  End.  But  London  was  full  of  young 
men  of  the  Huggo  type.     It  wasn't  likely. 

It  turned  out  to  have  been  very  likely.  It  turned  out 
that  Huggo  had  never  been  in  Scotland  at  all  but  in 
London  all  the  time.  And  much  worse  than  that.  One 
evening  towards  the  end  of  the  so-called  Scotland  month 
Huggo  unexpectedly  walked  into  the  house.  Rosalie 
was  sitting  with  Harry  in  the  dining-room  over  the  end 
of  dinner.  Doda  was  upstairs  putting  last  touches  to  her- 
self before  going  out  to  a  dance.  Doda  was  eighteen  then 
(it  was  1919),  had  left  school,  and,  with  a  large  circle 
of  friends,  was  going  out  a  great  deal.  Benji  was  still 
at  school,  at  Milchester.  Harry  had  never  resumed  rela- 
tions with  beloved  Tidborough. 

The  door  opened  and  Huggo  walked  in.  His  face  was 
very  flushed  and  his  articulation  a  little   odd.     When, 


THIS  FREEDOM  339 

after  greetings,  he  sat  down,  he  sat  down  with  a  curiously 
unsteady  thud  and  gave  a  Httle  laugh  and  said,  "  Whoa, 
mare,  steady!  " 

It  appeared,  after  explanations,  that  he  had  come  to  talk 
about  "  this  Oxford  business.''  "  I  really  can't  very  well 
go  to  Oxford  now,  father.  I  really  ought  to  start  in 
some  money-making  business  now  and  I've  got  a  jolly 
good  opening  promised  me.     I  really  ought  to  take  it." 

The  decanters  were  on  the  table.  He  had  already 
taken  a  glass  of  port.     He  filled  another  and  drank  it. 

"  The  fact  is,  I'm  —  married." 

There  were  some  hard  and  bitter  things  said  between 
his  father  and  the  boy.  The  boy  fumbled  —  he  obviously 
had  been  drinking  —  between  would  not  or  could  not  say 
very  much  as  to  who  it  was  that  he  had  married. 

Harry  said,  "Who  are  her  people?  That's  a  plain 
question,  isn't  it?  " 

Huggo,  very  red,  increasingly  difficult  to  understand, 
said,  "  It's  a  plain  enough  question.  It's  a  plain  enough 
question.  I've  come  here  to  be  perfectly  frank  and  plain 
and  plain  enough  question.  The  fact  is  I  don't  know  very 
much  about  her  plain  enough  people.'' 

Rosalie  broke  out  of  the  frozen  stupefaction  that  had 
numbed  her.  "  Huggo,  you  must  know.  You  must  know 
who  her  people  are." 

Huggo  turned  a  very  slow  gaze  around  from  his  father 
to  his  mother.  He  looked  at  her.  He  said  with  astonish- 
ing violence,  "  Well,  I  tell  you  I  don't.  People !  What 
have  her  people  got  to  do  with  it  ?  I  haven't  married  her 
people.  She's  my  little  girl  and  I've  married  her,  not  her 
people.     Isn't  that  enough  for  you?  " 

Harry  got  up  and  went  over  to  him.  "  Look  here,  you'd 
better  run  along.  You're  not  in  a  fit  state  to  talk  to  your 
mother.     I'm  not  sure  you're  in  a  fit  state  to  talk  to  any- 


340  THIS  FREEDOM 

body  or  to  know  what  you're  saying.  You'd  better  go, 
my  boy.  We'll  go  into  this  in  the  morning.  Come  round 
early  in  the  morning.    We'll  settle  it  then.'' 

He  was  passing  with  Huggo  through  the  door  when 
Doda,  equipped  for  her  dance,  came  running  down  the 
stairs.  "  Hull-o,  Huggo !  Why,  I  haven't  seen  you  for 
weeks.    Where  have  you  been?" 

Huggo,  standing  unsteadily,  unsteadily  regarded  her. 
"  Point  is,  where  are  you  going?  All  dressed  up  and 
somewhere  to  go!  I'll  bet  you  have!  I've  seen  you  jaz- 
zing about  the  place  when  you  haven't  seen  me,  Dods. 
And  heard  about  you !  There  was  a  chap  with  me  watch- 
ing you  at  the  Riddle  Club  the  other  night  told  me  some 
pretty  fierce  —  " 

"Oh,  dash,  I've  left  my  fan,"  cried  Doda,  and  turned 
and  ran  back  up  the  stairs. 

Huggo  called,  "  I  say,  Dods.  I'm  in  a  row.  So'll  you 
be  one  day,  if  you  don't  look  out  for  yourself." 

Doda's  voice  :  "  Oh,  dry  up  —  you  fool  1 " 

Strike  on ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Her  Doda!  The  one  that  was  her  baby  girl,  that  was 
her  tiny  daughter !  The  one  that  was  to  be  her  woman 
treasury  in  which  she'd  pour  her  woman  love ;  that  was 
to  be  her  self's  own  self,  her  heart's  own  heart,  her  tiny 
woman-bud  to  be  a  woman  with  her  in  the  house  of 
Harry  and  of  Huggo  !    Her  Doda ! 

Look,  there  she  is!  There's  lovely  Doda!  She's  four- 
teen. It's  early  in  191 5,  in  the  first  twelve  months  of 
the  war.  (That  war!)  She's  at  that  splendid  school. 
She's  been  there  nearly  three  years.  She  loves  it.  She's 
never  so  happy  as  when  she's  there,  except,  judging  by 
her  chatter,  when  she's  away  in  the  holidays  at  the  house 
of  one  of  her  friends.  It's  at  home  —  when  she  is  at 
home  —  that  she's  never  really  happy.  She's  so  dull, 
she  always  says,  at  home.  She  always  wants  to  be  doing 
something,  to  be  seeing  something,  to  be  playing  with 
somebody.  She  can't  bear  being  in  the  house.  She 
can't  bear  being,  of  an  evening,  just  alone  with  Rosalie. 
"  Oh,  dear !  "  she's  always  saying.  "  Oh,  dear,  I  do 
wish  it  would  hurry  up  and  be  term  time  again." 

"  Darling,  you  are  a  restless  person,"  Rosalie  says. 

"  Well,  mother,  it  is  dull  just  sticking  here." 

"  You  know  how  Benji  loves  to  have  you  home,  Doda. 
Benji  simply  lives  for  you.  I've  never  known  a  brother 
so  devoted.  You  ought  to  think  of  Benji  sometimes, 
Doda." 

"  Well,  I  can't  be  ahvays  thinking  of  Benji.  I'm  surely 
entitled  to  be  with  my  own  friends  sometimes.  I  don't 
ask  Benji  to  be  devoted  to  me." 


342  THIS  FREEDOM 

She's  strangely  given  to  expressions  like  that :  "  I  didn't 
ask  for  "  —  whatever  circumstance  or  obligation  it  might 
be  that  was  irksome  to  her.  "  Not  traditions  —  prece- 
dents !  "  The  watchword  of  the  school  was  strangely  to 
be  traced  in  her  attitude,  still  in  her  childish  years,  towards 
a  hundred  commonplaces  of  the  daily  life.  She  was  always 
curiously  older  than  her  years.  She  seemed  to  have  a 
natural  bent  away  from  traditionally  childish  things  and 
towards  attractions  not  associated  with  childhood.  She 
did  excellently  well  at  the  school.  She  was,  her  reports 
said,  uncommonly  quick  and  vivid  at  her  lessons.  She  was 
always  in  a  form  above  her  years.  Her  friends,  while  she 
was  smallish,  were  always  the  elder  girls,  and  the  elder 
girls  gave  her  welcome  place  among  them.  "  Perhaps  a 
shade  precocious,"  wrote  the  lady  principal  in  one  of  the 
laconic,  penetrating  sentences  with  which,  above  her  sig- 
nature, each  girl's  report  was  terminated :  and,  in  a  later 
term,  "  Has  *  Forward ! '  for  her  banner,  but  should  re- 
member '  not  too  fast '." 

"  Cripes !  I  know  what  she's  referring  to,''  said  Doda, 
seeing  it;  and  laughed,  obviously  flattered. 

"  Your  expressions,  Doda!  " 

"  Huggo  uses  it." 

"  They're  wretched  even  in  Huggo.  But  Huggo's  a 
boy.    You're  a  girl." 

"  Well,  mother,  I  didn't  ask  to  be  a  girl." 

"  Doda,  that's  merely  silly." 

"  A  lot  of  us  say  it,  that's  all  I  know." 

"  Then,  darling,  a  lot  of  you  are  silly." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  glad  when  next  week  I  go  to  the  Fer- 
gussons.     It  is  dull." 

Look,  there  she  is.  She's  sixteen.  She's  beautiful. 
She's  pretty  as  a  picture,  and  she  knows  she  is.  She's' 
grown  out  of  the  rather  early  fullness  of  figure  that  had 


THIS  FREEDOM  343 

been  hers.  She's  sUm  and  tall  and  straight  and  supple 
and  slender  as  a  willow  wand.  If  she  had  her  hair  up 
and  her  skirts  lengthened  (skirts  then  were  only  starting 
on  their  diminution  to  the  knees),  she'd  pass  for  twenty 
anywhere,  and  a  twenty  singularly  attractive,  curiously 
self-possessed,  strikingly  suggestive  in  her  pale  and  beau- 
tiful countenance,  and  in  an  alternating  sleepiness  and 
glinting  in  her  eyes ;  strikingly  suggestive  of,  well,  strik- 
ingly suggestive  according  to  the  predilictions  and  the 
principles  of  the  beholder. 

This  was  in  191 7.  She  was  beginning  rather  to  hate 
school  now.  She  wanted  to  be  out  and  doing  some  war 
work  of  some  kind.  Oh,  those  sickening  scarves  and 
things  they  were  eternally  knitting,  that  wasn't  war  work. 
It  was  fun  at  first.  They  were  fed  to  death  with  doing 
them  now.  She  didn't  much  want  to  go  into  a  hospital 
or  into  any  of  these  women's  corps.  They  were  a  jolly 
sight  too  cooped  up  in  those  things  from  what  she'd  heard. 
She  wanted  to  go  into  one  of  the  Government  offices  and 
do  clerical  work.  Several  of  the  school  Old  Girls  who 
had  been  there  with  her  were  doing  that  and  it  was  the 
most  ripping  rag.  Of  course  you  had  to  work,  and  of 
course  it  was  jolly  good  patriotic  work,  but  you  had  a 
topping  time  in  many  ways.  That  was  what  she  wanted 
to  do.  Oh,  mother,  do  let  her  chuck  school  now  and  get 
to  it !  Not  till  she  was  seventeen  ?  Well,  it  was  sicken- 
ing.   Well,  it  was  only  another  term,  thank  goodness. 

It  was  in  the  holidays  —  in  her  brief  days  at  home  of 
the  holidays  —  in  which  these  wishes  were  expressed,  that 
Rosalie  found  Doda  was  corresponding  with  officers  at 
the  front. 

Doda  was  appallingly  untidy  in  her  habits.  She  was 
out  one  evening  to  a  party  —  she  managed  to  get  a  con- 
siderable number  of  parties  into  her  dull  days  at  home. 
Rosalie,  come  in  from  Field's,  peeped  into  her  bedroom 


344  THIS  FREEDOM 

to  find  her.  She  had  not  known  that  Doda  was  going 
out.  The  bedroom  cried  aloud  that  Doda  had  gone  out. 
Drawers  were  open  and  articles  of  dress  hanging  out  of 
them.  One  drawer,  no  doubt  stubborn  in  its  yieldings, 
was  bodily  out  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Clothes  were 
on  the  floor.  Clothes  strewed  the  bed.  Powder  was  all 
over  the  mirror.  It  was  as  if  a  whirlwind  had  passed 
through  the  room. 

"  Powder!  "  murmured  Rosalie. 

The  state  of  the  room  dismayed  her.  The  intense 
orderliness  of  her  own  character  forbade  her  ringing  for 
a  maid.  She  simply  could  not  look  at  untidiness  like  that 
without  tidying  it.  She  started  to  tidy.  Doda's  box  was 
open.  Its  contents  looked  as  if  a  dog  had  burrowed 
in  it,  throwing  up  the  things  as  he  worked  down.  If  any- 
thing was  to  go  in,  everything  must  first  come  out.  Rosa- 
lie lifted  out  an  initial  clearance. 

There  lay  scattered  beneath  it  quite  half  a  dozen  photo- 
graphs of  ofiicers  in  khaki. 

There  were  all  inscribed.  "  To  the  school  kid."  "  Wish- 
ing you  were  here."  "  With  kisses."  "  Till  we  meet." 
And  with  slangy  nicknames  of  the  writers.  There  lay 
with  them  a  number  of  letters,  all  in  their  envelopes. 
There  lay  also  a  sheet  of  paper  covered  in  Doda's  bold 
handwriting.    It  began  "  Wonderful  Old  Thing." 

Rosalie  had  not  touched  these  evidences  of  an  unknown 
interest  in  Doda's  life.  She  stooped,  staring  upon  them, 
the  lifted  bundle  of  clothes  in  her  hand.  The  stare  that 
took  in  "  Wonderful  Old  Thing  "  took  in  also  the  first 
few  lines.  They  were  not  nice.  But  she  oughtn't  to  read 
it.  One  didn't  do  that  kind  of  thing.  She  replaced  the 
bundle  and  closed  the  box.  Then  she  tidied  the  room  and 
wiped  the  mirror. 

Early  next  morning,  immediately  on  coming  out  of  her 
bath,  she  went  in  to  Doda.  She  opened  the  door  softly 


THIS  FREEDOM  345 

and  she  distinctly  saw  the  lids  of  Doda's  eyes  flash  up  and 
close  again. 

"Doda!" 

Doda  pretended  to  be  asleep.  Rosalie  had  sat  up  for 
Doda  the  previous  night  but  had  said  nothing  to  her 
either  of  her  discovery  or  of  going  to  an  invitation 
without  having  told  her.  Doda  wasn't  pretending  to  be 
asleep  because  she  feared  trouble.  She  was  pretending  to 
be  asleep  just  because  she  had  no  wish  for  an  early  talk 
with  her  mother. 

There  was  a  little  pang  at  the  heart  of  Rosalie. 

But  it  was  just  that  the  child  wasn't  demonstrative  of 
her  affections.  None  of  them  were.  Even  Benji  not 
really  what  you  would  call  demonstrative.  How  beautiful 
the  child  was !  Her  Doda !  How  little  she  ever  saw  of 
her! 

She  called  her  again. 

Doda  opened  her  eyes.     "  Hullo,  mother." 

Just  that.  No  more.  They  were  different,  the  chil- 
dren. 

She  sat  down  on  Doda's  bed  and  began  to  talk  to  her. 
Tidiness !  "  Doda,  your  room  as  you  left  it  last  night 
when  you  went  out  was  simply  terrible.    How  can  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  be  tidy,"  said  Doda.  "  I  simply  can't. 
It's  no  good  trying." 

"  Darling,  you  ought  to  try.  It's  so  odd.  I'm  so  fear- 
fully tidy.  It's  almost  a  vice  with  me.  One  would  have 
thought  you'd  have  had  it  too." 

Doda  said  indifferently,  "  I  don't  see  why."  She  said, 
"  Oh,  I  am  sleepy.  It's  a  matter  of  teaching  when  you're 
a  kid,  that  sort  of  thing.  You're  tidy,  but  you  never 
taught  me  to  be  tidy." 

Rosalie  said  some  more  of  encouragement  to  tidiness. 
She  then  said,  ''  And  there's  another  thing,  Doda.    I  think 


346  THIS  FREEDOM 

you  ought  not  to  have  rushed  off  Hke  that  to  the  Trevors 
last  night  without  telHng  me." 

"  Mother,  you  knew  where  I  was.     I  told  the  maids." 

*'  You  should  have  consulted  me,  Doda." 

The  child  assumed  the  Huggo  look.  "  Mother,  how 
could  I?  They  only  asked  me  on  the  telephone  at  tea- 
time.    How  coidd  I  have  consulted  you?  " 

"  In  the  same  way  as  you  were  invited.  On  the  tele- 
phone." 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  about  it.  Why  should  I  if  I 
had?  I  knew  you'd  have  agreed.  You  wouldn't  have 
stopped  me,  would  you?  It's  dull  enough,  goodness 
knows." 

"  Doda,  what  I've  come  in  to  talk  about  is  this.  When 
I  was  tidying  your  room  last  night —  " 

Doda  sat  up.    '^'  Did  you  tidy  my  room?  " 

"  I  couldn't  possibly  leave  a  room  like  that.  Well,  I 
went  to  tidy  your  box —  " 

"  I'll  get  up,"  said  Doda.  She  jumped  very  quickly 
out  of  bed  and  put  on  a  wrapper  and  her  slippers.  "  Yes, 
well?" 

"  Are  you  writing  to  men  at  the  front,  Doda?  " 

"  Every  girl  is.    It's  a  thing  to  do.    It  helps  them." 

"  Are  they  friends  of  yours,  dear?    Personal  friends." 

"  They're  brothers  of  girls  I've  stayed  with." 

"All?" 

"  Practically  all.  There're  not  more  than  two  or  three. 
Lonely  soldiers,  they're  called.  They  used  to  advertise. 
It  helps  them.     There's  no  harm  in  it,  is  there?  " 

"  I  haven't  suggested  there  is,  Doda." 

"  I  can  see  you're  going  to,  though.  If  you  ask  me  —  " 
She  stopped. 

"  I  don't  think  I  like  the  idea,  quite.  I  never  did  when 
I  heard  of  it  being  done.  Why  should  they  send  you 
their  photographs?" 


THIS  FREEDOM  347 

"  But  what's  the  harm?    Why  shouldn't  they?  " 

"  Darhng,  it's  I  am  asking  you.     I'm  your  mother." 

"  Well,  if  you  ask  me  —  "  Doda  walked  over  to  the 
window.  She  stood  there  a  moment  looking  out.  She 
suddenly  turned.  "  If  you  ask  me,  I  don't  think  it's  right 
to —  Of  course  if  you  think  it  right  to  —  if  you've  been 
reading  my  letters  —  " 

"  Doda,  I  haven't.  I  just  saw  them  there.  But  I'd  like 
to  read  them,  Doda.    May  I?  " 

"  They're  private  letters.  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
expect  me  to  show  you  private  letters." 

Rosalie  went  over  to  Doda  and  stood  by  her  and  stroked 
her  hair.  *'  Doda,  I  think  we'll  look  at  it  like  this.  Let 
me  read  the  letters  and  we'll  talk  about  them  and  see  if 
it's  nice  to  go  on  wTiting  to  the  men,  in  each  individual 
case.  That  certainly  you  shall  do,  continue  writing,  if  it 
all  seems  nice  to  us,  together,  Doda.  If  you  won't  show 
them  to  me  —  well,  let  us  say  if  you'd  rather  not  show 
them  to  me  —  then  I'll  ask  you  iust  to  burn  them  and  we'll 
forget  it." 

Doda  stepped  violently  away  from  the  hand  that  stroked 
her  hair.     "No.     I  zvon't  show  them." 

"  Then  it's  to  burn  them,  Doda." 

Doda  looked  slowly  around  the  room.  Her  face  was 
not  nice.    She  said  sullenly,  "  There's  no  fire  here." 

"  Bring  them  down  with  you  to  the  breakfast-room. 
Your  father  will  have  gone.    We'll  see  Benji's  not  there." 

She  went  to  Doda  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead, 
Doda  shut  her  eyes.  Her  hand  on  Doda's  shoulder  could 
feel  Doda  quivering.  She  went  to  the  door  and  at  the 
door  said,  "  And  the  photographs,  dear.  I  should  bring 
them  too." 

She  had  long  finished  breakfast  when  at  last  Doda  came 
down.  The  tall,  slim,  beautiful  and  pale  creature  appeared 
in  the  doorway.     She  walked  towards  the  fire,  her  head 


348  TPIIS  FREEDOM 

held  high,  her  brown  hair  in  a  thick  tail  to  her  waist.  She 
had  a  packet  in  her  hands.  As  she  began  to  stoop  over  the 
fire  she  suddenly  uprighted  herself  and  turned  upon  her 
mother.  She  said  violently,  "  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  count 
them?" 

Rosalie  said  very  softly,  "  Doda !  " 

Doda  bent  to  the  flames  and  pressed  the  packet  down 
upon  them.  She  stood  watching  them  mount  about  it.  A 
half-burnt  photograph  slid  onto  the  hearth.  She  gave  a 
sound  that  was  a  catching  at  her  breath  and  swiftly 
stooped  and  snatched  the  burning  fragment  up  and  cast  it 
on  its  fellows.  The  leaping  flames  died  down.  She  turned 
violently  towards  Rosalie,  seated  at  the  table  watching 
her,  her  heart  sick.  That  tall,  slim,  beautiful  creature 
whose  face  had  been  pale  and  was  habitually  pale  was 
in  her  face  crimson,  her  slight  young  bosom  heaving,  her 
■eyes,  so  often  sleepy,  flashing,  her  young  hands  clenched. 
"  I  call  it  a  shame !  "  Her  voice  was  high  and  raw.  "  I 
call  it  a  shame !  I  call  it  wicked  1  I  call  it  abomiinable ! 
I  call  it  an  —  an  outrage  !  " 

Rosalie  said,  "  Doda !  Doda,  I  haven't  reproached  you. 
I  haven't  reproved  you.  If  they  had  been  letters  you  could 
have  shown  me,  yes,  then  a  shame  —  " 

The  child  called  out,  "  I'm  nearly  seventeen!  I  call  it 
an  outrage !  " 

Rosalie  got  up  and  went  to  her.  "  Darling,  they  couldn't 
be  shown.  They're  just  burnt.  They're  forgotten."  She 
put  out  inviting  arms.     "  My  poor  Doda !  " 

That  child,  almost  touched  by  her  arms,  brushed  her- 
self from  the  arms.  "  Why  should  I  have  things  like  this 
done  to  me  by  you?" 

"  Doda,  I  am  your  mother.    You  have  a  duty  —  " 

"Well,  I  won't  have  a  duty!  Why  should  I  have  a 
duty?    I  didn't  ask  to  be  born,  did  I ?    You  chose  for  me 


THIS  FREEDOM  349 

to  be  born,  didn't  you?  I  didn't  choose  it.  I'll  never 
forget  this.    Never,  never,  never !  " 

Tears  rushed  into  her  eyes  and  leapt  from  her  eyes. 
She  gave  an  impassioned  gesture.  She  rushed  from  the 
room. 

Strike  on ! 

Look  at  her.  There  she  is.  She's  only  eighteen  but 
she's  woman  now.  Grown-up.  "  Out,"  as  one  would 
have  said  in  the  old  and  stupid  days,  but  out  much  wider 
than  the  freest  budding  woman  then.  It's  191 9.  They've 
caught,  the  rising  generation,  the  flag  of  liberty  that  the 
war  flamed  across  the  world ;  license,  the  curmudgeons  call 
it;  liberty,  the  3-oung  set  free.  It's  1919.  She's  been  a 
year  war-working  in  one  of  the  huge  barracks  run  up  all 
over  London  for  the  multitudes  of  women  clerks  the  Gov- 
ernment departments  needed  and,  the  war  over,  not  too 
quickly  can  give  up.  She  loves  it.  She's  made  a  host  of 
friends.  Her  friends  are  all  the  girls  of  wealthy  parents, 
like  herself,  or  of  parents  of  position  if  not  of  means ;  and 
all,  like  her,  are  far  from  with  complaint  against  the  war 
that's  given  them  this  priceless  avenue  away  from  home. 
She  loves  it.  Of  course  she  doesn't  love  the  actual  work. 
Who  would?  What  she  loves  is  the  constant  titillation 
of  it.  The  titillation  of  getting  dow^n  there  of  a  morning 
and  of  the  greetings  and  the  meetings  and  the  rapt  re- 
sumptions of  the  past  day's  fun;  the  titillation  of  watch- 
ing the  clock  for  lunch  and  of  those  lunches,  here  to-day, 
to-morrow  there,  and  of  the  rush  to  get  back  not  too  late. 
The  titillation  of  watching  the  clock  for  tea,  and  of  tea, 
and  then,  most  sharpest  titillation  of  them  all,  watching 
the  clock  for  —  time ! ;  for  —  off ! ;  for  —  out !  away  I 
That  is  the  charm  of  it  in  detail.  The  charm  in  general^ 
as  once  expressed  to  Rosalie  by  one  of  Doda's  friends 


350  THIS  FREEDOM 

brought  in  to  tea  one  Sunday  is,  "  You  see,  it  gets  you 
through  the  day." 

That's  it.  The  night's  all  right.  There's  nearly  always 
something  doing  for  the  night.  It's  just  the  day  would 
be  so  hopeless  were  there  not  this  lively  way  of  "  getting 
through  the  day."     That's  it,  for  Doda. 

Until  she  found  her  feet  —  not  in  her  office,  but  at 
home  at  first  emergence  from  her  school  —  until  she 
found  her  feet  she  often  used  to  be  kept  uncommonly  late 
at  office.  In  a  very  short  while  she  found  her  feet  and 
that  excuse  no  longer  was  put  forward.  Every  girl  of 
Doda's  association  was  on  her  feet  in  1919;  and  for  Doda 
very  much  easier,  at  that,  than  for  the  generality,  to  estab- 
Hsh  her  position  in  the  house.  By  1920,  when  she  was 
nineteen,  she  was  conducting  her  life  as  she  pleased,  as 
nineteen  manifestly  should.  In  1921,  when  she  was 
twenty,  the  war  work  was  over  and  she  was  "  getting 
through  the  day  "  much  as  she  lived  the  night.  It  was 
pretty  easy  to  get  through  the  day  in  1921.  That  which 
the  curmudgeons  called  license,  and  liberty  the  free,  was 
in  1 92 1  held  by  charter  and  by  right  prescriptive. 

Look  at  her.  There  she  is.  She's  lovelier  yet,  if  that 
which  was  her  budding  loveliness  could  bear  a  lovelier  hue. 
She's  always  out  somewhere,  or  she's  always  off  some- 
where, or  she's  always  coming  in  from  somewhere.  Her 
eyes,  in  presentation  more  pronounced,  have  always  got 
that  sleepy  look  or  got  that  glinting  look.  She  never  talks 
much  at  home.  She  seems  to  keep  her  talking  for  her 
friends  and  she  never  brings  her  friends  home.  She's  on 
good  terms  with  Rosalie.  That's  the  expression  for  it. 
She  was  to  have  been  a  woman  treasury  into  which  was 
to  be  poured  by  Rosalie  all  her  woman  love.  She  was  to 
have  been  a  woman  with  her  mother  in  the  house  of  Harry 
and  of  Huggo.  But  that's  all  done.  She's  not  a  daughter 
to  her  mother.    She  never  asked  to  be  born  to  her  mother, 


THIS  FREEDOM  351 

as  once  she  told  her  mother,  and  though  that  never  now 
again  is  said  it  is  the  basis  of  her  stand.  She  owes  no 
obHgations.  They  just  meet.  They  get  on  very  pleas- 
antly.    She's  on  good  terms  with  Rosalie. 

It  is  odd  —  or  else  it  isn't  odd  but  only  natural  —  that 
in  all  the  pictures  seen  by  Rosalie  there  scarcely  is  a 
picture  that  ever  shows  the  children  all  together.  They 
hardly  ever,  within  the  compass  of  her  pictures,  were 
together.  As  in  their  schoolhood,  so  much  more  in 
adolescence,  they  never  showed  a  least  desire  for  one 
another's  company.  They  had  their  friends,  each  one, 
and  much  preferred  their  friends.  You'd  not,  it's  true, 
say  that  of  Benji;  but  Benji  in  fraternal  wish  had  to 
take  what  was  offered  him  and  there  was  nothing  offered 
him  by  Doda ;  by  Huggo  less  than  nothing. 

Benji ! 

Look,  here's  the  Benji  one ;  the  good,  the  quiet,  gentle 
one;  the  one  that  never  gave  a  thought  of  trouble,  Benji. 

Her  Benji!  The  one  that  came  after  disfavour,  after 
remorse ;  that  came  with  tears,  with  thank  God,  charged- 
with-meaning  tears.  The  littlest  one.  The  one  that  was 
so  tiny  wee  beside  the  big  and  sturdy  others.  Her  last 
one!     Her  Benji! 

Look,  there  he  is.  Always  so  quiet,  gentle,  good. 
Always,  though  snubbed,  so  passionately  fond  of  Doda. 
Look,  there  he  is.  He's  at  Milchester,  in  his  spectacles, 
the  darling  1  He's  always  in  his  books.  He  isn't  good  at 
games.  He  does  so  well  at  school.  Oh,  isn't  Harry  proud 
of  him  and  fond  of  him !  Oh,  doesn't  Harry  often  sigh 
and  wish  he  could  have  gone  to  Tidborough  to  win  those 
prizes  and  those  honours  there.  But  Tidborough's  closed 
to  Harry,  Harry  says.  Look,  there  goes  Benji!  It's 
1919.  He's  sixteen.  It's  Speech  Day  at  Milchester.  He's 
in  the  Sixth.     He's  won  all  those  prizes.     She's  holding 


352  THIS  FREEDOM 

two  and  Harry's  holding  three,  and  there  he  goes  to  take 
the  Heriot  Gold  Medal.  All  the  great  hall  is  simply 
cheering  Benji!  The  Head  is  saying  that  he's  the 
youngest  boy  that's  ever  won  the  Heriot.  Look,  there's 
the  Bishop  handing  it,  and  shaking  Benji  by  the  hand, 
and  patting  Benji  on  the  back,  and  saying  something  to 
him.  You  can't  possibly  hear  what  it  is,  every  one  is 
cheering  so.  Look,  here  he  comes  with  the  medal,  in  his 
spectacles,  the  darling!  She  can  scarcely  see,  her  eyes 
are  brimming  so.  Harry's  quite  shameless.  Harry's  got 
tears  standing  on  his  cheeks  and  he's  set  down  the  prizes 
and  is  stretching  both  his  hands  out  to  the  boy.  Feel, 
that's  his  hand  —  her  Benji's  hand  —  snuggled  a  moment 
in  hers,  and  then  he  turns  to  his  father  and  is  eagerly 
whispering  to  his  father,  his  spectacles  rubbing  his  father's 
head,  the  darling !  He's  more  demonstrative  to  his  father 
than  he  is  to  her.  She  feels  it  rather  sometimes.  He's 
awfully  sweet  to  her,  but,  you  can't  help  noticing  it,  it's 
more  his  gracious  manner  than  the  outpouring  she'd  give 
anything  to  have.  It's  funny  how  he  always  seems  the 
tiniest  atom  strange  with  her  as  if  he  didn't  know  her 
very  well  or  hadn't  known  her  very  long.  It  sometimes 
pains  a  little.  He's  different  with  his  father.  He  loves 
being  with  his  father.  And  doesn't  Harry  love  having 
the  boy  with  him!  Harry  idolises  the  boy.  Of  course 
Huggo  is  Harry's  eldest,  and  whatever  Huggo's  disap- 
pointments, these  men  —  at  least  these  perfect  Harry  type 
of  men  —  have  for  their  eldest  boy  within  their  hearts  a 
place  no  other  child  can  quite  exactly  fill.  There's  some 
especial  yearning  that  the  eldest  seems  to  call.  There's 
some  incorporation  of  the  father's  self,  there's  some  re- 
fiection  that  he  sees,  there's  some  communion  that  he 
seems  to  find,  that  makes  "  My  eldest  son  "  a  thing  apart. 
But,  with  that  reservation,  and  that's  ingrained  in  men, 
it's  Benji  that's  the  world  to  Harry.     He's  going  to  Ox- 


1 


THIS  FREEDOM  353 

ford.  He's  going  to  have  the  Bar  career  that  Htiggo 
wouldn't  take.  But  Harry  thinks  there's  some  especial 
wonders  going  to  come  to  Benji.  He  says  the  boy's  a 
dreamer.  He  says  the  boy's  a  thinker.  "  Benji's  got 
something  rare  about  him,  Rosalie,"  he  says.  "  That  boy's 
got  a  mark  on  him  that  genius  has.  You  wait  and  see, 
old  lady.  It's  Benji's  going  to  make  the  old  name  shine !  " 
Strike  on ! 

It  is  odd,  sad,  significant,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  pic- 
ture that  shows  together  those  three  children,  or  even  two 
of  them.  It's  1921  now  and  drawing  very  close  to  Finis; 
but  always  the  old  detachment,  the  seeming  want  of 
mutual  love,  appears  to  hold  the  three  apart.  Doda  is 
sometimes  glimpsed,  no  more,  with  Benji,  always  put- 
ting off  or  chilling  off  her  brother  for  her  friends ;  some- 
times she's  seen  with  Huggo,  meeting  him  and  he  her, 
more  like  an  acquaintance  of  their  sets  than  like  fruit  of 
the  same  parents ;  familiar,  apparently,  with  one  another's 
lives;  referring  to  places  of  amusement  by  both  fre- 
quented, as  had  been  done,  in  instance,  on  that  night  of 
Huggo's  announcement  of  his  marriage  when  with  a  note 
that  rung  sinister  he  had  bantered  Doda  and  she  had 
turned  and  run  upstairs.  But  no  more  than  that.  The 
children  seem  to  have  no  mutual  love.    They're  different. 

It's  1921.  Huggo  was  scarcely  ever  seen  now.  He  had 
married  in  haste  and  had  in  haste  repented.  He  also  had 
played  a  trick,  involving  a  sum  of  money,  on  his  father. 
His  wife,  as  it  appeared,  had  been  met  at  some  dancing 
club  and  the  brief  courtship  had  continued  anywhere  but 
at  her  home.  Of  her  home  Huggo  knew  only  what  she 
told  him ;  and  what  she  told  him  was  only  what  she  could 
invent.  She  was  then,  at  their  first  meeting,  in  the  uni- 
form of  a  war  service  corps  to  which  she  belonged.  She 
said  her  father  was  a  clergyman. 


354  THIS  FREEDOM 

*'  A  clergyman's  daughter !  "  cried  Huggo  bitterly, 
acquainting  Rosalie  only  three  months  after  his  marriage 
of  his  marriage's  failure.  "A  clergyman's  daughter! 
That's  what  they  all  say  —  those !  Wasn't  I  a  fool  to 
be  caught  out  by  that !  Oh,  wasn't  I  a  fool !  If  you  want 
to  know  what  she  really  was,  she  was  a  teashop  waitress, 
in  the  city  somewhere.  If  you  want  to  know  what  her 
reverend  father  in  the  country  was,  is,  he  doesn't  live  in 
the  country;  he  lives  in  Holloway,  and  he  doesn't  live  in 
a  rectory  in  Holloway,  he  lives  in  a  baker's  shop.  That's 
what  he  is,  a  baker !  That's  what  I've  done  for  myself, 
married  a  waitress !  Yes,  and  then  you,  you  and  father, 
when  she  comes  whining  here  and  complains  I  ill-treat 
her  and  keep  her  without  money,  you  two  take  her  part 
and  send  her  back  to  me  with  your  championship  and  get 
me  here  to  pi  jaw  me  about  my  duty  to  my  pretty  young 
wife !  Well,  now  you  know,  now  you  know,  and  you  can 
tell  father  what  my  pretty  young  wife  is  —  how  she  de- 
ceived me.    Deceived  me  !    Now  you  know." 

Rosalie  said,  "  Huggo,  you  deceived  her." 

Huggo  had  been  leaving  and  now  very  violently  went. 
"  That's  your  tone,  is  it?  I  might  have  known  !  That's  all 
you  can  say,  is  it?  To  see  me  ruin  my  life  and  then  re- 
proach me!  Ruin  my  life!  It's  not  I  that's  ruined  my 
life.  It's  you.  There,  now  I've  told  you !  I  can  see  things 
now.  What  sort  of  a  chance  have  I  ever  had  ?  What  sort 
of  a  home  have  I  ever  had  ?  Have  I  ever  had  a  mother  ? 
When  I  was  a  kid  did  I  ever  have  a  mother  like  other  kids 
have  ?  I  can  see  things  now,  A  mother !  I  can't  ever 
remember  a  time  when  I  wasn't  in  the  charge  of  some 
servant  or  governess  or  other.  You  said  this  afternoon 
before  father  that  I  didn't  love  you.  Did  you  ever  teach 
me  to  love  you  ?  By  God,  I  can't  remember  it.  By  God,  I 
can't." 

Strike  on ! 


THIS  FREEDOM  355 

Also  that  trick,  touching  a  sum  of  money,  upon  his 
father.  When  he  first  made  known  his  marriage,  and  it 
was  obvious  he  must  have  his  way  and  be  set  up  to  start 
in  life,  he  had  also,  as  he  had  said,  the  chance  of  a 
lucrative  business.  It  was  the  kind  of  thing  he  liked.  It 
was  the  kind  of  thing  he  was  keen  on.  It  was  a  motor-car 
business.  There  was  a  little  syndicate  that  was  putting  a 
new  car  on  the  market.  They'd  got  works,  just  outside 
London  somewhere.  They'd  got  show-rooms  in  the 
West  End.  And  they'd  got  an  absolutely  first-class  article. 
That  chap  Telfer  was  one  of  the  directors;  a  first-class 
chap  called  Turner  was  another;  they'd  let  him  in  for 
eight  thousand  pounds  and  he'd  be  absolutely  set  up  for 
life  and  be  pulling  in  an  immense  fortune  in  no  time.  You 
M'ill,  won't  you,  father? 

Of  course  Harry  forgave  the  boy,  his  eldest  son.  The 
marriage  was  done,  what  was  the  use  of  being  unkind  or 
stupid  about  it?  Of  course  Rosalie  welcomed  the  wife, 
Lucy,  the  prettiest  creature,  a  tiny  shade  common,  per- 
haps, but  a  sweet  little  soul  with  always  about  her  a 
pathetic  air  of  being  afraid  of  something  (of  when  it 
should  come  out  precisely  what  she  was,  as  the  event 
proved).  Of  course  Harry  paid  over  the  eight  thousand 
pounds.  Huggo  took,  "  to  start  with,"  as  he  said,  a  tiny 
furnished  flat  in  Bayswater.  Rosalie  installed  him  and 
his  bride  therein  and  left  him,  on  their  first  night  there, 
ever  so  gay,  so  confident,  so  happy.    Her  Huggo ! 

In  two  months  it  all  came  out.  Lawyers  are  notoriously 
lax  in  making  their  own  wills.  Harry,  who  could  master 
a  case  quicker  than  any  man  at  the  Bar,  and  could  see  to 
the  soul  and  beyond  it  of  a  hostile  witness  a  minute  after 
getting  on  his  feet  to  cross-examine,  was  fooled  blind  by 
the  syndicate  that  was  going  to  put  the  absolutely  first- 
class  article  on  the  market.  Whether  it  was  that  there 
never  had  been  a  business,  and  that  Harry's  inspection  of 


356  THIS  FREEDOM 

works,  visits  to  show-rooms,  and  examination  of  books, 
was  all  part  of  an  elaborate  swindle  carried  out  with  the 
aid  of  some  one  who  possessed  these  accessories;  or 
whether  it  was  that  the  whole  thing  was  bought  up  cheap 
merely  to  sell  at  a  profit,  was  never  clearly  known  to  Harry 
and  to  Rosalie.  Harry  was  too  grieved  to  pursue  the 
shock.  "  I'll  take  not  a  step  further  in  the  matter, 
Rosalie,"  Harry  said.  "  I  can't  bear  to  find  the  boy  out 
deeper.  It's  done.  There's  no  sense  in  being  stupid  or 
unkind  about  it." 

What  happened  was  that  the  car  enterprise  never  was 
an  enterprise  at  all  except  an  enterprise  to  get  eight 
thousand  pounds  into  the  possession  of  the  syndicate. 
Nothing  ever  was  properly  announced  by  Huggo.  It  just 
"  came  out."  It  "  came  out  "  that  the  syndicate  was  not 
established  in  the  West  End  show-rooms  but  in  three 
rather  dingy  of^ces  in  the  city.  It  "  came  out  "  that  the 
syndicate  was  not  running  a  motor-car  business  but  a 
business  cryptically  described  as  "  Agents."  Huggo  said 
disaster  had  overtaken  the  car  enterprise  and  that  the 
syndicate,  rescuing  what  remained  of  the  smash,  had 
pluckily  set  up  on  another  line.  He  thought  he  could 
scrape  along.  It  was  a  knockout  of  course,  but  he  thought 
he  could  scrape  along. 

"  But  what  I  can't  make  out,  old  man,"  said  Harry, 
when  Huggo  had  stumbled  through  an  entirely  non-ex- 
planatory explanation  of  the  syndicate's  business  in  its 
new  capacity  as  agents,  "  What  I  can't  make  out,  old  man, 
is  why  you  should  trade  under  another  name.  Why, 
*  So-and-So,  and  So-and-So,  and  So-and-So,  Agents  '  — 
I  can't  ever  remember  the  names?  Why  not  '  Telfer, 
Occleve  and  Turner  '  ?  '' 

"  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  father  —  I  want  you  to 
know  everything  without  any  concealment  —  " 

"  I  know  you  do,  old  man.    I  know  you  do." 


THIS  FREEDOM  357 

"  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that's  just  a  bit  of  useful 
swank.  The  names  we're  trading  under  are  swagger 
names  and  we  think  it  sounds  better." 

"  Occleve  sounds  pretty  good  to  me,  Huggo.  We've 
been  a  good  long  way  on  Occleve,  the  Occleves." 

"  Well,  that's  what  they  think,  father,  and  of  course, 
as  I've  told  you,  they  know  infinitely  more  about  busi- 
ness than  I  do.  They'll  explain  the  whole  thing  to  you  any 
time  you  like.     It's  all  absolutely  above-board,  father." 

"  My  dearest  old  boy,  don't  talk  like  that.  Of  course 
it  is.  We're  only  so  grieved,  your  mother  and  I,  that  you 
should  have  had  such  a  setback  so  early.  But  remember, 
old  man,  the  great  thing  is  not  to  let  your  wife  suffer. 
No  pinching  or  screwing  for  her,  Huggo.  Always  your 
wife  first,  Huggo.  We'll  give  you  at  the  rate  of  three 
hundred  a  year  just  until  all's  going  swimmingly,  and 
that's  to  keep  Lucy  merry  and  bright,  see  ?  " 

It  was  shortly  after  that  it  all  came  out  that  the  thing 
was  a  ramp,  the  motor-car  business  never  in  existence; 
shortly  after  that  it  came  out  Huggo  was  neglecting  his 
wife;  shortly  after  that  the  high  words  to  Rosalie,  telling 
her  how  his  wife  had  deceived  him ;  shortly  after  that  that 
the  syndicate,  amazingly  prosperous,  moved  into  offices 
better  situated  and  handsomely  appointed;  shortly  after 
that  it  came  out  that  the  business  of  the  syndicate  was  in 
some  way  connected  with  company  promotion. 

Harry,  seen  among  these  developments,  was  not  the 
man  he  used  to  be.  He  was  at  the  crest  of  his  career  at 
the  Bar,  working  enormously  and  earning  richly,  but  the 
old  bright,  cheery  way  had  gone  from  Harry.  There  was 
permanently  upon  his  face,  and  there  was  intensified,  the 
beaten  look  that  Rosalie  first  had  seen  on  that  night,  in 
the  war,  when  there  had  been  the  Huggo  drinking  busi- 
ness and  when  for  the  first  and  only  time  he  had  spoken 
passionately  to  Rosalie.     When  he  now  was  at  home  he 


358  THIS  FREEDOM 

used  to  sit  for  long  periods  doing  nothing,  just  thinking. 
When  sometimes,  home  earher  than  he,  RosaHe  saw  him 
coming  up  the  street  towards  the  gamboge  door  she 
noticed,  terribly,  the  bowed  shoulders,  the  weary  gait, 
the  set,  careworn  face.  She  used  to  run  down  then  to 
the  famous  gamboge  door  and  open  it  and  greet  him  and 
his  face  used  to  light  up  in  the  old  way,  but  it  was  not 
the  same  face,  and  the  effect  of  its  radiation  therefore 
not  the  same.  It  was  not  that  the  face  was  older.  It  was 
that  its  aspect  was  changed. 

He  used  to  look  up  from  that  chair  where  he  sat  just 
thinking,  when  Doda,  butterflied  for  the  evening,  butter- 
flied  across  the  room,  and  used  to  say,  "  Out  again, 
Doda  ?  "  He  then  would  relapse  back  into  his  thoughts. 
He  had  a  habit  of  getting  up  suddenly  and  rather  strangely 
wandering  about  from  room  to  room  of  all  the  principal 
rooms  of  the  house,  just  standing  at  the  door  of  each,  and 
looking  in  (they  were  all  empty  of  inhabitants),  and  then 
coming  back  and  sitting  again  in  the  chair  and  just  sit, 
thinking. 

It  used  to  pain  the  heart  of  Rosalie. 

She  said  more  than  once  when  he  returned  from  such 
a  tour,  "  Dear  Harry,  looking  for  anything?  " 

He'd  say  rather  heavily,  "  No ;  no,  dear.  Just  having  a 
look  around." 

It  used  to  pain  the  heart  of  Rosalie. 

But  he  used  to  be  enormously  brightened  up  when 
Benji  came  home.  Benji  was  just  at  Oxford  then, 
eighteen.  He  was  a  different  man  when  Benji  was  at 
home.  He  used  to  say,  "  Rosalie,  that  boy's  going  to 
make  a  name  for  himself  in  the  world.  My  heart's 
wrapped  round  that  boy,  Rosalie.  Ay,  me !  I  wish  he'd 
been  our  eldest,  Rosalie." 

That  was  because  he  couldn't  tear  away  the  wrappings 
of  his  heart  from  about  his  eldest.     Men  can't. 


THIS  FREEDOM  359 

It  used  to  pain  the  heart  of  RosaHe. 

Of  course,  with  everything  now  known,  Huggo  was 
forgiven.  Huggo  was  prosperous  now,  almost  aggres- 
sively prosperous.  He  kept  a  car.  The  syndicate,  what- 
ever it  actually  did,  was  obviously  doing  enormously  well. 
What  was  the  good  of  being  stupid  and  unkind  to  the 
boy  now  that,  at  last,  he  had  found  his  feet  ?  But  Huggo 
scarcely  ever  came  to  the  house.  He  had  virtually  left 
Lucy.  Lucy  lived  on  in  the  originally-taken  furnished 
flat  in  Bayswater.  Huggo  had  rooms  somewhere,  no 
one  quite  knew  where,  and  lived  there.  Rosalie  used  to 
get  Lucy  to  the  house  sometimes,  but  Lucy  was  never  at 
her  ease  on  these  visits,  and  Doda,  who  sympathized  en- 
tirely with  Huggo  in  the  matter,  very  much  disliked  her 
and  would  not  meet  her.  Lucy  was  in  bad  health  and  she 
was  going  to  have  a  baby.  Her  health  and  her  condition 
made  her  look  much  more  common  than  she  used  to  look. 

Then  the  baby  was  born;  a  little  girl.  Poor,  grateful 
Lucy  called  it  Rosalie.  She  told  Rosalie  that  Huggo  said 
he  didn't  care  what  the  baby  was  called.  He  was  very 
angry  about  the  baby.  "  He  was  worse  than  usual  when 
he  was  here  last  week,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  think  he's  got 
something  on  his  mind.  I  think  he's  worrying  about 
something.     Oh,  he  was  sharp." 

Lucy  was  very  ill  with  the  birth  of  her  baby.  She 
didn't  seem  able  to  pick  up  again  from  her  confinement. 
She  kept  her  bed.  Then,  suddenly,  she  developed  pneu- 
monia. The  maternity  nurse,  paid  by  Rosalie,  was  still  in 
attendance.  Rosalie  sent  in  another  nurse,  and  on  that 
same  night,  going  straight  to  the  sick  bed  from  Field's, 
and  then  coming  home  ver>^  late,  told  Harry,  who  was 
waiting  up  for  her,  that  the  worst  was  feared  for  Lucy. 
She  then  said,  "  Harry,  if  anything  happens,  I  think  we'll 
have  that  baby  here.  It  will  practically  be  a  case  of  adopt- 
ing the  child." 


360  THIS  FREEDOM 

Harry  agreed. 

"  I'd  get  in  a  nurse  for  her,  the  new  Httle  RosaHe." 
She  sighed. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Harry. 

She  said  after  a  little,  "  Harry,  the  nurseries  in  use 
again ! 

He  sat  there  as  he  was  always  sitting,  thinking. 

She  went  over  to  him.  "  Dear,  won't  you  like  the 
nurseries  to  be  in  use  again?  " 

He  said  slowly,  "  I  will,  very  much,  Rosalie.  It's 
lonely,  these  empty  rooms.  I  will  very  much  —  in  some 
ways." 

Rosalie  knew  what  Harry  meant.  She  touched  his 
hand.     "  Dear,  I  think  it  can  be  made  different." 

Harry  knew  what  Rosalie  meant.  He  pressed  the  hand 
that  touched  his  own.  "  That's  all  right,  Rosalie.  That's 
all  right,  dearest." 

Rosalie  was  down  early  next  morning.  She  desired  an 
early  breakfast  and  to  go  on  to  see  Lucy  before  Field's. 
It  might  be  necessary  to  stay  the  day  with  Lucy.  There 
was  also  Huggo.  What  was  Huggo  doing?  Overnight 
Rosalie  had  seen  Doda,  come  in  late  from  an  evening  with 
a  very  intimate  friend  of  hers  always  known,  through 
some  private  joke  of  Doda's,  as  "  the  foreign  friend." 
The  foreign  friend,  not  in  the  least  foreign  but  English, 
was  a  young  married  woman  living  apart  from  her  hus- 
band. Doda  had  brought  her  to  the  house  once.  She  was 
very  pretty  and  a  cheery  soul.  She  would  have  been  called 
fast  when  Rosalie  was  a  girl.  In  1921  she  would  almost, 
in  the  manner  she  presented  to  Rosalie,  have  been  called 
slow.    Doda  and  she  were  greatly  attached. 

Doda,  overnight,  going  straight  upstairs  to  bed,  had 
said,  "  Have  you  seen  Huggo  to-day?  He's  in  a  scrape  of 
some  sort." 


THIS  FREEDOM  361 

"  Oh,  Doda,  what  kind  of  a  scrape?  " 

''  He  didn't  tell  me.  I  ran  into  him  quite  by  chance 
coming  away  from  a  theatre  with  the  foreign  friend.  We 
both  thought  he  was  rather  badly  rattled." 

"  Was  he  going  on  to  Lucy  ?  Did  he  know  Lucy  was 
very  ill  indeed?  " 

Doda  said,  "  I  don't  know.  He  didn't  tell  me.  Is 
she  ?  "  and  indifferently  passed  upstairs. 

Rosalie  at  her  early  breakfast  was  thinking  what  news 
the  day  would  give  of  Lucy  and  of  Huggo.  She  was  sud- 
denly, by  Huggo  in  person,  brought  intelligence  of  both. 
She  heard  the  door  bell  ring  and  in  a  minute  Huggo  sur- 
prisingly broke  into  the  room.  He  had  kept  his  hat  on. 
He  looked  white,  drawn  and  very  agitated.  He  shut  the 
door  behind  him.     "  Lucy's  dead." 

Tears  sprang  into  the  eyes  of  Rosalie,  "  Oh,  my  poor 
Huggo !  " 

He  made  a  gesture.  "  Oh,  that's  no  good !  Look  here, 
mother,  will  you  look  after  things  over  there  for  me? 
That's  all  I've  come  in  to  say.  Will  you  see  to  everything 
and  will  you  take  the  kid?    I  can't  stop." 

He  made  to  go. 

"Huggo,  of  course  I  will.  But  you'll  be  there?  Are 
you  going  there  now?  " 

"  I'm  not.    I'm  going  away." 

"  Going  away?  " 

His  hand  was  on  the  door.  "  Yes,  going  away.  Look 
here,  there's  another  thing.  If  any  one  comes  here  for 
me  will  you  say  you  haven't  seen  me?  It's  important. 
It's  vital." 

"  Huggo,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  You'll  jolly  soon  know.  You  may  as  well  know  now. 
Then  you'll  realise.  If  you  want  to  know  —  the  police 
are  after  me." 

He  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  V 

In  the  Book  of  Job  it  all  happened,  to  Job,  in  the  ap- 
parent compass  of  one  piece  of  time  not  broken  by  diurnal 
intervals,  not  mitigated  by  recuperative  cessations  between 
blow  and  blow.  It  seemed  to  Rosalie  that  it  was  like  that 
it  happened  also  to  her.  There  seemed  no  interval.  It 
seemed  to  her  wrath  on  wrath,  visitation  upon  visitation, 
judgment  upon  judgment. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  no  sooner  come  down 
out  of  the  Old  Bailey  —  her  hand  touching  at  things  for 
support,  her  vision  vertiginous,  causing  the  solid  ground 
to  be  in  motion,  her  ears  resonant,  crying  through  her 
brain  the  words  she  saw  in  Huggo's  look  as  they  removed 
him;  it  seemed  to  her  she  was  no  sooner  out  from  there 
than  she  was  at  the  telephone  and  summoned  by  the  for- 
eign friend  and  was  there  with  Doda  and  was  in  process 
of  "Oh,  Doda!"  — "Oh,  mother!";  it  seemed  to  her 
she  was  no  sooner  out  from  that  than  she  was  with  that 
burly  messenger,  going  with  him,  returning  from  him. 
There  were  days  and  nights  walled  up  in  weeks  and 
months  between  these  things,  but  that  is  how  they  seemed 
to  Rosalie. 

The  syndicate  was  laid  by  the  heels,  one  here,  one 
there,  Huggo  in  France,  very  shortly  after  the  warning 
that  had  put  Huggo  in  flight.  The  syndicate  went  through 
the  police  court  where  was  unfolded  a  story  sensational 
with  surprising  sums  of  money,  captivating  with  ingenuity 
of  fraud  covered  up  by  fraud  to  help  new  fraud  again. 
The  syndicate  stood  in  the  dock  at  the  Old  Bailey.   Those 


THIS  FREEDOM  363 

two  of  the  syndicate  described  by  the  prosecution  and  by 
the  judge  as  the  principals  were  sentenced  to  three  years' 
penal  servitude.  "  You,"  said  the  judge,  addressing  with 
a  new  note  in  his  voice  the  third  prisoner,  "  You,  Occleve, 
stand  in  a  different  —  " 

Rosalie  began  to  pray. 

Harry  would  not  attend  the  trial.  He  had  done  all  that 
could  be  done,  and  of  his  position  there  was  very  much 
that  he  was  able  to  do,  and  had  attended  the  police  court 
during  the  initial  proceedings.  He  would  not  go  to  the 
Old  Bailey.  He  would  not  go  out.  He  would  not  read 
the  papers.  He  used  to  sit  about  the  house.  "  My  son  a 
felon.  .  .  .  My  boy  a  felon.  My  son.  .  .  .  My  eldest 
son.  .  .  ." 

Rosalie  was  given  a  seat  in  the  floor  of  the  court  on 
the  first  days  of  the  hearing.  On  the  day  when  the  verdict 
was  to  be  given  and  sentence  passed  she  could  not  bear 
that.  An  usher,  much  pitying,  obtained  her  a  place  in 
the  gallery.  She  looked  down  immediately  upon  her 
Huggo.  Her  hands,  upon  the  ledge  before  her,  were  all 
the  time  clasped.  Her  eyes  alternately  were  in  her  hands 
and  on  her  Huggo.  Her  heart  moved  between  her  Huggo 
and  her  God.  • 

"  You,  Occleve,  stand  in  a  different  position.     .     .     ." 

She  began  to  pray.  All  of  her  being,  all  of  her  soul,  all 
of  her  life,  with  a  spiritual  and  a  physical  intensity 
transcending  all  that  her  body  and  her  mind  had  ever 
known,  was  in  apotheosis  of  supplication.  "  O  God  the 
Father !    O  God  the  Father!    O  God  the  Father! " 

Her  Huggo !  Those  words  that  only  in  snatches  she 
heard  were  being  addressed  to  her  Huggo. 

"...  Your  counsel  has  most  eloquently  pleaded  for 
you.  .  .  .  You  bear  an  honoured  name.  .  .  .  You  bear 
a  name  held  in  these  precincts  in  honour,  in  esteem,  in 
love,  in  admiration.  .  .  .  You  have  had  a  good  home,  a 


364  THIS    FREEDOM 

great  and  a  noble  father,  a  distinguished  and  devoted 
mother.   .  .  ." 

That  suppliant  crouched  lower  in  her  supplication. 

".  .  .  You  have  been  the  dupe,  you  have  been  the 
tool,  you  have  been  in  large  part,  as  your  counsel  has 
pleaded,  and  as  I  believe,  the  unsuspecting  agent.  .  .  . 
Nevertheless,  the  least  sentence  I  can  pass  on  you  —  '' 

"  O  God  the  Father,  the  Father! " 

"...  is  six  months'  imprisonment." 

That  boy,  whose  head  had  been  hung  and  eyes  down- 
cast, lifted  his  head  and  raised  his  eyes  and  gave  one  look 
into  the  eyes  of  that  suppliant  for  him  that  sat  above  him. 
There  was  recalled  by  that  suppliant  a  look  that  had 
passed  from  the  place  of  accusation  to  the  place  of  as- 
sembly in  the  place  called  the  Sanhedrin. 

Her  Huggo ! 

They  took  him  away. 


Doda  didn't  stop  going  out.  She  seemed  to  go  out 
more.  The  pain  within  that  house,  brought  there  by 
Huggo,  seemed  to  make  that  house  more  than  before  un- 
bearable to  Doda.  She  often  spent  the  night,  or  the  week 
end  away,  staying  with  the  foreign  friend,  she  generally 
said.  She  would  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the 
baby  now  installed  in  the  house.  She  never  would  go 
near  it.  Once  she  passed  it  in  the  hall  in  its  perambulator. 
She  stopped  and  stooped  over  the  face  of  lovely  innocence 
that  lay  there  and  gazed  upon  it  with  an  extraordinary 
intensity.  She  drew  back  with  a  sharp  catch  at  her  breath 
and  sharply  stepped  away  and  turned  and  ran  very  cjuickly 
upstairs.  After  that  when  she  chanced  to  pass  the  child 
she  turned  aside  and  would  not  look  upon  the  child.  She 
began  not  to  look  well,  Rosalie  thought.  There  often 
was  upon  her  lovely  face  a  pinched  and  drawn  expression, 
disfiguring  it.     On  the  rare  occasions  when  she  was  in  to 


THIS  FREEDOM  365 

dinner  she  sat  strangely  moody.  There  only  was  a  moodi- 
ness about  that  table  then;  but  the  moodiness  of  Doda 
was  noticeable  to  Rosalie,  She  ate  hardly  at  all.  She 
sometimes  would  get  up  suddenly  l^efore  a  meal  was  ended 
and  go  away,  generally  to  her  own  room.  Very  many 
times  Rosalie  would  seek  anxiously  to  question  her,  but 
apart  from  the  independence  which  commonly  she  main- 
tained towards  Rosalie.  Doda  seemed  very  much  to  resent 
solicitude  upon  her  health.  "  What  should  be  the  matter? 
I  look  perfectly  well,  don't  I?  " 

"Doda,  you  don't.     I've  noticed  it  a  long  time." 

*'  Well,  I  am  perfectly  well.    If  I  wasn't  I'd  say  so." 

Strike  on ! 

Rosalie  was  called  up  on  the  telephone  by  the  foreign 
friend.  It  was  the  evening,  about  ten  o'clock.  Doda  was 
away  for  a  week  at  Brighton  with  the  foreign  friend. 
She  was  due  back  to-morrow.  Harry  was  out  with  Benji. 
Benji  was  nineteen  then  and  was  home  on  vacation  from 
Oxford.  Harry  never  could  bear  Benji  out  of  his  sight 
when  Benji  was  home.  In  the  affliction  that  had  come 
upon  them  he  seemed  to  cling  to  Benji.  Rosalie  had  per- 
suaded him  that  evening  to  go  with  Benji  to  a  concert. 
Harry  said  the  idea  of  anything  like  that  was  detestable 
to  him,  but  Rosalie  had  pleaded  with  him.  Just  a  little 
chamber  concert  was  different.  It  would  do  him  so  much 
good  to  have  an  evening  away  and  to  hear  a  little  music 
and  Benji  would  love  it.  Harry  allowed  himself  to  be 
persuaded  and  went  off  arm-in-arm  with  Benji.  He 
always  put  his  arm  in  Benji's  when  he  walked  with 
Benji. 

Rosalie  was  waiting  for  them  when  the  telephone  bell 
rang  and  she  was  spoken  to  by  the  foreign  friend. 

It  then  happened  like  this. 

The  voice  of  the  foreign  friend  was  very  alarmingly 


366  THIS  FREEDOM 

urgent.  "  Would  she  come  and  see  Doda  at  once,  at  once, 
at  once?" 

The  voice  struck  a  chill  to  the  heart  of  Rosalie.  "  But 
where  are  you  ?  You're  at  Brighton,  aren't  you  ?  Are  you 
speaking  from  Brighton?" 

"  No,  no.    At  my  flat.    At  my  flat." 

"  But  what  is  it?  What  is  it?  Why  don't  you  tell  me 
what  it  is?  " 

"  It's  an  —  it's  an  — ."  The  voice  stammered  and  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Oh,  speak !    Oh,  speak." 

She  could  hear  the  voice  gulping. 

"  Oh,  please  do  speak!  " 

"  Doda  isn't  very  well.  Doda's  very  ill.  It's  an  —  it's 
an  accident." 

"  I'll  come.     I'll  come." 

"Is  Mr.  Occleve  there?" 

"  He  isn't.     He's  out." 

"  Can  you  get  him  ?  " 

"  No.  Yes.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  think.  Oh,  tell 
me.    Tell  me." 

"  Will  you  leave  a  message  for  him  to  come  at  once?  " 

"  At  once.    At  once." 

She  wrote  a  message  for  Harry  and  she  picked  up  a 
wrap  and  she  ran  out  hatless  to  find  a  cab. 

She  found  a  cab  and  went  to  Doda. 

This  all  happened  as  quickly  as  bewilderingly.  It  was 
not  like  a  dream  and  it  was  not  like  a  nightmare.  It  was 
like  a  kind  of  trance  to  Rosalie. 

The  foreign  friend  was  not  seen  at  the  flat.  She  was 
in  some  other  room  and  did  not  appear.  She  said  after- 
wards, and  proved,  that  she  had  been  away  the  previous 
night,  leaving  Doda  at  the  flat,  and  had  returned  to  find 
her  —  as  she  was  found ;  and  had  immediately  called  the 
nearest  doctor  and  then  Doda's  mother. 


THIS  FREEDOM  367 

It  was  the  doctor  that  opened  the  door  to  Rosalie.  He 
was  a  Scotcliman;  a  big  and  rugged  man,  all  lines  and 
whiskers  and  with  a  rugged  accent. 

He  said,  "  You'rre  her  mother,  arren't  ye?  Where's 
her  father?" 

"  He's  coming.    Where  is  my  child?  " 

The  doctor  jerked  his  head  towards  a  wall.  "  She's 
yon." 

"  Tell  me,  please." 

He  pushed  a  chair  towards  her  but  she  shook  her  head. 
"  Please  tell  me." 

"  Ye'U  want  your  courage."  He  again  indicated  the 
chair.  She  again  shook  her  head.  "  It'll  try  ye.  She's 
dying." 

The  lips  of  Rosalie  formed  the  words:  *' Tell  me." 
There  was  no  sound  in  her. 

The  doctor  said,  "  I  cannot  tell  ye.  It  is  for  your  hus- 
band to  hear." 

The  heart  of  Rosalie  stood  still.  She  put  both  her 
hands  upon  her  heart  and  she  said  to  the  doctor,  *'  Tell 
me.     I  am  strong." 

The  doctor  looked  upon  Rosalie  intently  and  he  said 
(he  was  perhaps  dexterously  giving  her  time  that  she 
might  weld  herself)  he  said,  "  Ye'll  need  be  strong.  Ye 
look  sensible.  Ye'll  need  be  sensible."  He  said,  "  There's 
been  before  me  here  another —  There's  been  a  creature 
here  before  me.  There's  been  blackguarrd  work  here. 
There's  been  —  that  poor  child  there  .  .  ."  He  told 
her. 

She  moaned  :  "  O  God,  be  merciful !  " 

That  child,  as  that  night  went,  was  in  delirium.  She 
seemed  to  lie  upon  a  bed.  She  lay,  in  fact,  upon  the  altar 
of  her  gods,  of  self,  of  what  is  vain,  of  liberty  undis- 
ciplined, of  restless  itch  for  pleasure,  and  of  the  gods  of 


368  THIS  FREEDOM 

Rosalie,  a  piteous  sacrifice  to  them.  You  that  have  tears 
to  shed  prepare  to  shed  them  now.  Or  if  you  have  no 
tears,  but  for  emotion  only  sneers,  do  stop  and  put  the 
thing  away.  It  is  intolerable  to  think  to  have  beside  that 
bed,  beside  that  child,  beside  that  Rosalie,  your  sneers. 
It's  not  for  you  and  you  do  but  exacerbate  the  frightful 
pain  there's  been  in  feeling  it  with  them. 

Rosalie  was  all  night  with  that  child.  Harry  was  there 
upon  the  other  side  upon  his  knees  and  never  raised  his 
head.  Penji  was  there  that  loved  his  sister  so.  Across 
the  unblinded  window  strove  a  moon  that  fought  with 
mass  on  mass  of  fierce,  submerging  clouds  as  it  might  be 
a  soul  that  rose  through  infinite  calamity  to  God.  That 
child  was  in  much  torment.  That  child  was  in  delirium 
and  often  cried  aloud.  That  child  burned  with  a  fever, 
incredible,  at  touch  of  her  poor  flesh,  to  think  that  human 
flesh  such  flame  could  hold  and  not  incinerate.  That  child 
in  her  delirium  moaned  often  names  and  sometimes  cried 
them  out.  Nicknames  that  in  the  sexless  jargon  of  her 
day  and  of  her  kind  might  have  been  names  of  women 
and  might  be  names  of  men.  Darkie,  Topsy,  Skipper, 
Kitten,  Bluey,  Tip,  Bill,  Kid.  Names,  sometimes,  more 
familiar.  Once  Huggo ;  once  father ;  once  loud  and  very 
piteously,  "  Benji,  Benji,  Benji,  Benji,  Benji!" 

She  never  once  said  mother. 

She  calmed  and  a  long  space  was  mute.  The  moon,  its 
duress  passed,  stood  high,  serene,  alone.  The  doctor 
breathed,  "  She's  passing.''  That  child  raised  her  lids 
and  her  eyes  looked  out  upon  her  watchers. 

Rosalie  cried,  "  Oh,  Doda !  " 

That  child  sighed.     "  Oh,  mother!  " 

There  was  no  note  of  love.  There  was  of  tenderness 
no  note.  There  only  was  in  that  child's  sigh  a  deathly 
weariness.     "  Oh,  mother !  "     That  child  passed  out 


THIS  FREEDOM  369 

They  came  home  in  the  very  early  morning.  RosaHe 
was  in  her  working  room.  She  had  some  things  to  do. 
She  wrote  to  Mr.  Field  a  letter  of  her  resignation  from 
Field's  Bank.  She  only  wrote  two  lines.  They  ended, 
"  This  is  Final.     I  have  done." 

She  sealed  that  letter  and  she  moved  about  the  room 
unlaying  and  as  she  unlaid,  destroying,  all  evidences,  all 
treasures,  all  landmarks,  all  that  in  any  way  referred  to 
or  touched  upon  her  working  life.  There  were  cherished 
letters,  there  were  treasured  papers.  She  destroyed  them 
all.  From  one  bundle,  not  touched  for  years,  dust-covered 
and  time-discoloured,  there  came  out  a  battered  volume. 
She  turned  it  over.  "  Lombard  Street."  She  opened  it 
and  saw  the  eager  underlinings  and  saw  the  eager  margin 
notes,  and  ghosts  .  .  .  (it's  written  earlier  in  these 
pages).  She  rent  the  book  across  its  perished  cover  and 
pressed  it  on  the  fire  and  on  to  the  flames  in  the  fire.  "  I 
have  done." 

But  she  was  not  done  with  and  she  had  the  feeling  that 
she  was  not  done  with.  She  said  to  Harry,  "  This  is  not 
the  children's  tragedy.  This  is  my  tragedy.  These  were 
not  the  children's  faults.  These  were  my  transgressions. 
Life  is  sacrifice.  I  never  sacrificed.  Sacrifice  is  atone- 
ment.    It  now  is  not  possible  for  me  to  atone." 

She  was  on  her  knees  beside  his  chair.  He  stroked  her 
hair. 

There  was  an  inquest.  Harry  went.  She  stayed  at 
home  and  Benji  stayed  wath  her  to  be  with  her.  Benji 
was  not  to  be  consoled.  His  mood  was  very  dreadful. 
A  report  was  printed  in  the  evening  paper  before  Harry 
came  home.  Benji  read  it  and  told  Rosalie  a  witness,  a 
man,  had  been  arrested  on  the  coroner's  warrant.  Benji 
said,  "  I  think  I'll  go  out  now,  mother,  for  a  little.'' 

Later  in  the  afternoon  when  Rosalie  was  with  Harry  a 


370  THIS  FREEDOM 

maid  came  into  the  room  and  looked  at  Harry  and  saw 
how  sunk  he  was  in  his  chair  and  so  went  to  RosaHe  and 
whispered  to  her.  RosaHe  went  out.  There  was  a  man 
wished  to  see  the  master.  RosaHe  spoke  to  him.  He  was 
a  large,  burly  man  with  a  strong  face.  He  looked  like, 
and  was,  a  police  officer  in  plain  clothes.  Rosalie  heard 
what  he  began  to  say  and  said  she  would  go  with  him.  In 
the  cab  the  man  told  her  about  it.  All  his  sentences  began 
with  or  contained  "  The  young  gentleman." 

"  The  young  gentleman  .  .  .  the  prisoner,  when 
the  young  gentleman  came  rushing  in,  happened  to  be  in 
the  charge-room  writing  out  a  statement.  ,  .  .  The 
young  gentleman,  before  any  one  could  stop  him,  rushed 
at  this  prisoner  and  caught  him  by  the  throat  and  threw 
him  and  the  table  over  and  banged  the  man's  head  against 
the  floor,  fair  trying  to  kill  him.  They  got  the  young 
gentleman  off.  They  ought  to  have  arrested  the  young 
gentleman,  and  they  did  most  earnestly  wish  they  had  of 
arrested  him,  and  blamed  themselves  properly  that  they 
didn't  arrest  him.  But  they  felt  cruelly  sorry  for  the 
young  gentleman  and  they  got  him  outside  and  let  him 
go  and  no  more  said.  Of  course,  as  madam  knew,  the 
police  office  wasn't  very  far  from  Gower  Street  station, 
the  underground  station  with  them  steep  stairs  leading 
straight  down  from  the  street  to  the  platform,  as  madam 
might  be  aware.  .  .  .  The  young  gentleman  was  seen 
by  witnesses,  whose  names  were  took,  to  come  rushing 
down  these  stairs  on  to  the  platform  as  if  some  one  was 
after  him.  .  .  .  The  young  gentleman  come  rushing 
down  and  there  was  a  train  just  coming  in,  and  whether 
he  couldn't  stop  or  whether  he.  .  .  .  There's  some  say 
one  thing  and  some  say  the  other.  .  ,  ,  Whichever  way 
it  was  the  young  gentleman.   ..." 

Rosalie  did  her  errand  with  the  man  and  then  came 
back  to  Harry.    She  had  to  tell  Harry. 


THIS  FREEDOM  371 

He  was  sitting  in  his  chair.  He  had  an  open  book  on 
his  knees.  She  saw,  as  one  notices  these  things,  it  was 
a  Shakespeare.  She  stood  up  there  at  the  door  before 
him  and  she  said,  "  Harry  —  Benji !  " 

He  saw  it  in  her  face. 

He  groaned. 

He  took  the  book  off  his  knees  and  fumbled  it,  and 
with  a  groaning  mutter  dropped  it :  "  '  Unarm,  Eros,  the 
long  day's  work  is  done.'  " 

She  came  to  him  and  saw,  as  one  sees  things,  above  his 
head  the  picture  he  had  hung  when  raven  was  his  hair  and 
radiant  his  face,  and  had  hit  his  thumb,  and  jumped,  and 
cried  out,  "Mice  and  Mumps!"  and  had  laughed  and 
wrung  his  hands,  and  cried  out,  "  Mice  and  Mumps !  "  and 
laughed  again.  She  came  to  him  and  saw  him  wilt  and 
crumple  in  his  chair,  and  could  have  sworn  she  saw  the 
iron  of  his  head,  that  had  been  raven,  go  grey  anew  and 
greyer  yet.  She  came  to  him  and  she  said,  "  Harry  — 
^  Benji  —  an  accident  —  not  an  accident  —  on  the  railway 
—  killed." 

His  voice  went,  not  exclamatorily,  but  in  a  thick  mutter, 
as  one  agrope,  in  sudden  darkness,  befogged,  betrayed. 
"  My  God,  my  God,  my  God,  my  God,  my  God !  " 

She  fell  on  her  knees ;  and  on  her  arms  and  on  his  lap 
she  buried  then  her  face. 

He  suddenly  stooped  to  her,  and  caught  his  arms  about 
her,  and  raised  her  to  him,  and  pressed  his  face  to  hers, 
and  held  her  there;  and  his  cry  was  as  once  before,  pas- 
sionately holding  her,  his  cry  had  been;  then  from  his 
heart  to  her  heart,  now  from  the  abysses  of  his  soul  to 
her  soul's  depths,  "  Rosalie !    Rosalie !  " 


372  THIS  FREEDOM 


POSTSCRIPT. 

There  was  to  have  been  some  more  of  it;  but  there, 
theyVe  in  each  other's  arms,  and  one  has  suffered  so  with 
them  one  cannot  any  more  go  on.  One's  suft'ered  so ! 
One  has  looked  backward  with  her.  The  heart  must  break 
but  for  a  forward  gHmpse  :  — 

They're  all  right  now.  Huggo's  in  Canada.  He 
writes  every  week.  They're  all  right  now.  That  other 
Rosalie  that  they  brought  in  is  looking  after  them. 
She's  looking  after  them,  that  elf,  that  sprite,  that  tricksy 
scrap,  that  sunshine  thing.  She  calls  Harry  father  and 
Rosalie  she  calls  mother.  She  has  all  her  m.eals  with 
them.  There's  no  nurse.  It's  breakfast  she  loves  best. 
She's  on  the  itch  all  breakfast.  When  breakfast's  done 
she's  oft'  her  chair  and  hopping.  She  trumpets  in  her 
tiny  voice,  "  Lessons!  Lessons!  "  She  trumpets  in  her 
tiny  voice,  "  Lessons,  lessons !  On  mother's  knee !  On 
mother's  knee!  " 


THE   END 


NOVELS  BY  A.  S.  M.  HUTCHINSON 


William  Lyon  Phelps  in  the  New  York  Times  says: 

"Hutchinson  has  published  four  novels,  and  I  heartfly 
recommend  them  all:  'Once  Aboard  the  Lugger — ,'  1908; 
'The  Happy  Warrior,'  1912;  The  Clean  Heart.'  1914;  'If 
Winter  Gomes,'  1921." 

IF  WINTER  COMES 

12mo.    415  pages. 
"  'If  Winter  Comes'  is  more  than  a  mere  novel,  it  is  an 
epic  poem  of  very  great  beauty      It  will  last  long  after  most 
other  literary  products.of  this  age  have  gone  to  an  obscure 
and  unlamented  grave." —  Life,  New  York. 

ONCE  ABOARD  THE  LUGGER— 

12mo.   .327  pages. 
"At  once  serious  in  its  mockery  of  seriousness  and  touched 
with  genuine  sentiment  in  its  sympathy  with  the  emotions  of 
youth    .    .    .    Altogether    it    is    refreshing."  —  Everybody's 
Magazine,  New  York. 

THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Frontispiece.  12mo.  448  pages. 
"...  His  romance  and  his  humor  are  all  his  own,  and  the 
story  is  shot  through  and  through  with  a  fleeting  romance  and 
liumor  that  is  all  the  more  effective  because  it  is  so  evanescent. 
Few  novels  exist  in  which  the  characters  are  as  viable  as  Mr. 
Hutchinson's." —  Boston  Transcript. 

THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Frontispiece.  12mo.  403  pages. 
"It  will  find  its  way  to  the  heart  of  the  reader  in  short  order. 
It  has  a  strong  human  interest,  a  hero  whose  cause  commands 
appeal,  and  a  most  lovable  heroine.  .  .  Written  in  fine 
dramatic  style  and  with  character  dehneation  that  has  a 
charm  all  its  own." —  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle 

LITTLE,   BROWN   &  CO.,  PubHshers,   BOSTON 


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